


Totus Mundus Agit Histrionem

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, F/F, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Flirting, Frottage, Living Together, M/M, Minor Violence, Moving In Together, Murder Mystery, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2215653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>January, 1881: a despondent army doctor is offered a ticket to a Shakespeare play, and is instantly captivated by the fellow playing the Danish prince himself. Then there is a murder. Then they fall in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. S. Scott Holmes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Die ganze Welt ist eine Bühne](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9769619) by [a_different_equation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation)



> This nonsense has been known on twitter as the Hamlet!Holmes AU. Thanks owed to tweedisgood, 1electricpirate, and obstinatrix for beta work.

The middle months of 1880 were not ones that I would under any circumstances choose to repeat. I was wounded at the Battle of Maiwand, and though my army career was effectively terminated then, it took another quarter of a year before I was standing once again on English soil. I wanted nothing to do with anything at the time, being so disillusioned with the world, so I did the only thing I thought I could think of and went to London.

London was hospitable, in the way that only the biggest cities can be. I was alone in the middle of a crowd, solitary among multitudes, and I could have been lost forever. I was surviving on a pension that barely kept me fed and housed, and even then I was living beyond my means. My hands shook too badly to recommend me for a position at the hospital, and my nerves were too shattered to guarantee a full night's sleep. I woke more often than not with the sound of gunfire ringing in my ears.

By the beginning of 1881, I was convinced that my habits were not sustainable, but I refused to leave my new urban home. There was nothing for me outside London—no family to count on, no friends devoted enough to offer support—and so I knew I had to make do where I was. I would have to find a place other than my hotel: perhaps take a bed in a boarding house, or find someone to go halves on a set of rooms with me.

It was only a few days after I had made this pronouncement to myself that young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me at Bart's, spotted me in a crowd at the Criterion. One moment I was utterly alone, and the next his round, familiar face seemed to materialise in front of me.

"Watson!" he cried, shaking my hand heartily. "Good to see you again, my dear fellow. Whatever have you been doing with yourself?"

The question took rather a long time to answer, as it turned out, once we had moved past the usual lies and assurances of well-being. I invited him for lunch in Holborn, and we spent the afternoon trading stories of India and England since our time together at the hospital. Finally he asked me what I was doing with myself that very evening. I admitted that I hadn't any plans. I hardly ever had plans, unless they were to drink myself into trouble and gamble my way out of it again. I didn't admit that to him.

"I don't know if you'll be interested," Stamford said, pulling an envelope out of his pocket, "but I've got a ticket to a play tonight I can't get away for, and I don't want the seat going to waste. I've got to get back to cover a lecture, but I was really looking forward to this one."

"Stamford, I couldn't," I protested.

"Watson, I insist. I swear I can't go, and I can't find anyone who'll take it. Put your pocketbook away, man, and you can owe me a favour later if you must."

I put the ticket inside my jacket pocket. I hadn't any business going to the theatre—I doubted I had anything suitable to wear—but something about the possibility thrilled me. It was such a luxury; I'd never have bought a ticket on my own. After Stamford and I had shaken hands and parted ways, I spent the afternoon convincing myself to go. The theatre was not very far from my hotel in the Strand, and it would be an utter waste of an opportunity if I didn't attend. But my clothing was anything but fashionable, and the only civilian suit that would be appropriate was three years out of style and no longer fit my emaciated form.

Then again, I told myself, there would be no one to recognise me, and therefore no one to concern themselves with my appearance. I wished it didn't matter so bloody much. I stared long and hard at my thin, unnaturally-tanned face in the glass above the wash stand, and told myself I was being absurd. Normal people went to the theatre all the time.

\---

I slipped out of the hotel, avoiding the proprietor and his accusatory glare, and walked the few streets to the theatre. There was a crowd of people already milling about outside it, and I joined the throng with some trepidation. The normal hustle and bustle of a London street did not make me anxious, but the determined press of theatre-goers had an unknown quality. I gritted my teeth and went inside. 

The ticket-taker gave me the briefest of glances and then passed me on to the usher, who showed me to my seat.

Once seated, I could stare my fill at the interior of the theatre. I was quite far forward in the house, only a few rows from the edge of the stage, where the orchestra pit had been covered over and the footlights shone upwards at the sumptuous curtain. The seat was red velvet, plush and unfamiliar under my hands and backside. There was enough room between the rows for me to stretch my bad leg out on the carpet, and I tucked my walking stick between my seat and the next one. The armrests were dark mahogany, polished until they were gleaming.

The stage itself was painted wood, showing the scuff marks of dozens of shoes and with bits of coloured paper stuck here and there to mark where the actors were meant to stand. The curtain looked like the same red velvet as my seat, and it rippled in the footlights in the wake of an actor or a stagehand crossing the stage behind it. Its gold tassels brushed the ground with the barest susurration. I let out my breath on a quiet, deliberate sigh, and forced my shoulders to relax.

In the back of my mind, I knew I still retained something of the contents of Hamlet, but sitting there before the play began I could remember little other than that it took place in Denmark and contained some reference to a haunting. A young woman died. Come to think of it, everyone died.

Well, I was familiar with that.

The audience around me began to fill, and I had to move my walking stick for a gentleman beside me, and then pick up my feet for a lady on the other side. Within ten minutes I was surrounded completely, hemmed in by people on every side. I closed my eyes to wait for the curtain.

When the stage grew dark and the audience around me fell silent, I was able to open them again. The actors emerged, walking a perimeter around the stage, and I was at once transported. The ghost brought my heart into my mouth. The fear of the soldiers was my own. I trembled in my seat, and then the Prince of Denmark appeared.

Hamlet was tall, probably over six feet, and seemed taller because of his incredible leanness. He was all in black, from his soft cloth shoes to his leather doublet, which made him look as pale as the ghost he was meant to see. His narrow face was accentuated in the footlights, and when he spoke his voice reverberated through me. I was captivated. I couldn't take my eyes off of him.

He dragged me deeper. His suspicion grew inside me, and I saw spectres where he indicated. His tortured monologues rang out to the thump of my sympathetic heart, his madness echoed my own lost soul. He thought too much, analysed too deeply, where I had only followed orders. His sweetheart tried to pry him from his own mind, but he was stuck there and I was there with him. He spoke right to me when he went 'round in circles, trying to untangle the web he had woven, and I could do nothing to help. I was tortured for him, with him, by him, and when he finally succumbed to the insanity of the ghost and the poison on the sword, I felt as though my heart were breaking.

For a long moment the theatre was almost completely silent, and then the applause began, somewhere in the back of the house. It rushed forward, a wave of sound, and I found myself upon my feet with the rest of the people that surrounded me. We clapped and clapped as the actors returned to the stage and made their bows. Hamlet was still daubed with blood, and his dark hair was falling over his fine, high forehead, damp with sweat. His smile was broad and gracious, and he nodded his thanks to the thunderous audience. Then, as the actors retreated, so did the applause, until it was entirely subsumed by the general clamour and commotion of patrons leaving their seats.

I sat down again to wait for the row to clear, and picked up my program.

 _Featuring S. Scott Holmes as Hamlet._ He was marvellous; I don’t mind saying it. The memory of his voice sent a shiver through me. I hadn’t felt so affected by another person in so long. What a shame, I thought, that it had been all imaginary.

"Can I help you?" a familiar voice asked. I looked up in surprise.

S. Scott Holmes stood barefoot on the empty stage, wiping his hands on a rag stained with false blood. He had cleaned most of the blood off of his face, and he had changed out of doublet and hose. Now, in shirtsleeves and trousers, his braces hanging loose and his collar unbuttoned, he was entirely transformed. Instead of the aching, melancholy, untouchable Prince of Denmark, it was a mortal man before me.

He smiled when I met his eyes: a bland, expectant smile. "Is there something the matter?"

The house was almost entirely empty, save myself and Holmes. I cleared my throat, embarrassed. "No," I said, struggling to my feet and leaning on my walking stick. "I was just… lost in thought. I didn’t realise… You were magnificent."

The smile widened into a more genuine article, and Holmes ducked his chin as if to hide it. "Thank you," he said, beginning to fold up the rag he held. I stared at his hands, transfixed. They were entirely steady, his movements smooth and crisp, nothing like the fluttering, overwrought gesturing of the Prince. It was as though he had finally settled, after death. Found peace at the end of his life.

But, no. The actor before me was very much alive. He had thrown off the persona of the dead Prince, leaving it abandoned with his costume backstage.

I looked up again to find him watching me, his eyes sparkling with amusement and his thin mouth turned up in a knowing little smirk. I felt myself blushing.

"Let me shake your hand," Holmes said, coming to the edge of the stage.

"What?"

"Let me shake your hand," he repeated, holding out his own. "It’s only decent of me."

Startled, I manoeuvred my way out of the row. Holmes watched as I came down the aisle, but he made no move to join me on the floor. Instead, he waited until I was at the very edge of the stage, at which point he reached down as I reached up. We clasped hands. Up close, I could see the stage make-up on his face: the liner around his eyes that deepened and brightened their strange, silvery hue; the tint of rouge on his cheeks and lips that flushed his pale face in the footlights. On another, softer-featured man, they would have made him look effeminate. As he was, all sharp lines and angles, it only accentuated his masculine appeal. My throat felt dry.

"You’ve been in Afghanistan," he said, holding onto my hand. 

"Yes," I said, taken aback by his statement. "Good heavens, how did you know?" I wasn’t wearing any part of my uniform.

"You carry yourself like a military man," he said, crouching to look at me more closely, "and your complexion speaks volumes. Not to mention your gait is slightly altered, and you hold your left arm closer to your body than your right, suggesting you were wounded in action. You have the grip of a doctor, though."

"Assistant Surgeon," I confirmed. "Attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and later the 66th Berkshires."

He let out a low whistle of appreciation. "You were at Maiwand," he said. "You’re a hero, sir."

"God, no," I protested, trying to turn away from that piercing gaze, but he was still holding onto my hand.

"Well," Holmes said, "at least let me buy you a drink."

I stared at him. "What, now?"

When he let go of my hand, for a moment my palm was cold. He straightened again. "Give me ten minutes to get my makeup off, and I am your man."

"I–" I didn’t know what to say.

"Forgive me," he said, pausing halfway across the stage, "You are otherwise engaged."

I grimaced. "No," I admitted.

His smile was back, and it had taken a mischievous slope. "You are now," he said, and disappeared into the wings.

I swallowed hard. My heart was racing, and my hands felt clammy. For a moment, I thought I was ill. Then the excitement caught up with me, and I grinned so hard my face ached. I went up the aisle lighter on my feet than I had felt in six months, and when I opened the door to the lobby, the girl on the other side gave a little cry of surprise.

Schooling my features from what was no doubt a manic grimace, I apologised and made my way past her to the doors of the lobby. She muttered something at my back, but I was too euphoric to pay her any mind. I fastened my coat against the winter wind and tucked my muffler around my neck and face to hide the smile that I couldn’t control.

In the army, I had made a name for myself as an incorrigible rake, gaining the attentions of women across three continents. I had not slept with men while I was out of England, but now that I was back my old habits from University and earlier had made a reappearance. I was lucky that I found myself attracted to both sexes; I kept myself out of trouble for the most part.

But I had heard things about actors, and it seemed Mr S. Scott Holmes fit the bill.

On the other hand, he might be nothing more than a citizen of London wishing to show his appreciation for a protector of the realm. I was getting ahead of myself. If women would be frightened by the sight of my wounds, I doubted civilian men would be any different. They were horrible to look at, and I was a wreck of a man. My ruined thigh barely held me up as I stood, and I had the gall to imagine it making no difference in an amorous context? I was ridiculous, I told myself, pulling my hat down against the wind.

\---

I stood for what felt like an age in the cold, berating myself for my foolishness, wishing I had a pocket watch on which to rely. It had to be more than ten minutes, I thought. Holmes wasn’t coming to meet me. Now I was a fool, as well as an idiot, and I ought to make myself scarce before someone spotted me lurking and had me arrested.

I took up my stick and made my way down the stairs to the street, the cold air stabbing straight through my coat and into my shoulder. I hugged my arm closer to my side and risked the icy pavement, gritting my teeth against the ache.

Behind me, a voice called, "Doctor!"

I turned. A tall, thin figure detached itself from the shadows in the alley beside the theatre and hurried toward me. As he came into the circle of light from the streetlamp I stood under, I saw that it was Holmes after all.

"I don't know your name, Doctor," he said, stopping in front of me.

"Watson," said I. "John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes," he replied, and we shook hands a second time. Even through the layers of our gloves, I could feel the strength in his grip. "I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor Watson," Holmes went on. "Miss Sillars had a mishap with the spirit gum and she wouldn’t let us go on without her. I should have come to get you, but I didn’t think you’d be waiting out in the cold."

"I thought–"

"Never mind," Holmes said, taking my arm. "I shan’t make you stay out in this blasted weather a minute longer. We’re just going up the street."

I allowed myself to be led back the way I had come, past the theatre, trailing behind a gaggle of people who were all laughing and talking together, their powerful voices and affectionate camaraderie giving them away as the troupe of actors I had just watched. Holmes did not seem to be in a hurry to catch up, and we walked at some little distance, Holmes’s hand tucked into the crook of my elbow. His body blocked some of the wind, and I could feel the warmth from him seeping in along my side.

Soon, the company turned off the street and into a brightly lit public house. The noise and heat of the pub spilled out the door, and we quickened our step to reach it before it closed again. Holmes held the door for me and put his hand on the small of my back as I passed.

I breathed in the warm, humid, smoky air with a smile of relief. The cold, which I had feared would settle in my bones, already felt as though it were leaking out of me, and in its place I felt the hot, tingling pulse of my blood returning to my extremities. Behind me, Holmes took off his hat and coat, and offered to take mine as well. I only hesitated for the briefest moment, thinking of how miserable I would be if I lost this coat to carelessness or theft, and he smiled.

"You may rely on me to keep it safe, Doctor," he said. "We're something of a band of regulars here."

I nodded, embarrassed. I had no idea I was so transparent.

A moment later, Holmes returned, and he ushered me close to the bar, calling for a pair of brandies over the din. The rest of the company had become one with the patronage of the pub, and out of their costumes were almost entirely indistinguishable from the regular crowd. The only way I could identify them was by the traces of make-up on their faces, which made them look slightly surreal, larger than life.

Holmes handed me my glass and clinked our edges together. "For your service," he said softly, and kept his eyes fixed upon me as he took a sip.

I am ashamed to admit it, even now, but my throat closed up and I had to look away, blinking against the sting of tears. The war had brought honours and promotion to many of my comrades, but I had suffered nothing but misfortune and disaster. Even my discharge had been little more than an afterthought; I was too ruined in body and spirit to be any more use, and so they had sent me home. This single man, in a back alley pub, with a smear of fake blood still visible below his left ear and his hair slicked back from his face with more sweat than pomade, had just given me more genuine thanks for what I had risked than had my own regiment.

"Oh, my dear fellow," Holmes said at once, curling his arm around me and drawing me away from the crush at the bar. "I didn't— I hope you have not taken offence."

"No," I said, shaking my head and swallowing hard. "No, I'm— you caught me unawares, that is all."

"Forgive me," he said. "I shouldn't have dredged up unwanted memories."

I managed a laugh, and tasted the brandy he had given me. It served for an answer, and so Holmes led me to a table in the corner. We slid in across from one another, and Holmes took another appreciative sip of his drink. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at me at length, his eyes tracking over me from the top of my head to the buttons on my jacket and back again. When I refused to squirm under his gaze, he smiled.

"You are quite correct," he said, "I am nothing like the Prince of Denmark."

"Nothing at all," I said, and then started. "Good God!"

Holmes tipped his head back and laughed, delighted with himself. I stared, amazed, unable to keep from smiling myself.

"I am a professional mimic," he said. "I get by on my wits and my ability to read people, Doctor. Is it any surprise that I could read you? You have been quite fixated upon my left ear; I suppose there is make-up that I have missed. Then there is the fact that you keep looking at my companions, and then at me, with an expression of consideration, as you attempt to assign parts to faces you do not quite recognise. It's quite natural. Out of costume, we all look alike. Or perhaps we look nothing alike, and that is the trouble."

"Very true," I agreed. "Perhaps it is both. Forgive my ignorance, but you look very young to be playing a role as demanding as Hamlet."

Holmes tipped his drink in my direction, pursing his lips in thought. "I have been with the Lyceum Players for six years," he said. "It’s quite long enough to work my way up from the ranks of the Messengers and Courtiers. I played Patroclus in _Troilus and Cressida_ , and I had the honour of playing Prince Hal in _Henry IV, Part I_ , though I would say, of all of them, Mercutio in _Romeo and Juliet_ was my favourite role."

"It’s been a very long time since I read Shakespeare at school," I admitted.

"I’m very well suited to dashing or tragic heroes, sometimes at the same time," Holmes explained with a grin.

"I’ll have to take your word on the matter."

"I’d like to do a comedy some day," he went on, "but Irving is a dour old bastard and–"

We were interrupted by the sudden arrival of one of the actresses, the young, blonde woman who played Ophelia. She swept in and sank down in the chair beside Holmes, resting her wrist upon her shoulder and folding her face into her arm.

"Sherlock," she lamented, "save me from that dreadful row! Aiden and Quincy are at it again." She sat up again. "I can't stand it anymore. Introduce me to your handsome friend, won't you?"

Holmes allowed this invasion of his space without flinching, and he even let his hand drift onto the curve of her shoulder. He did this while looking at me, and I could have sworn I felt his touch upon my own arm.

"This is Doctor John Watson," Holmes said to Ophelia. "Doctor, this is Miss Lydia Bainbridge."

"Miss Bainbridge," I said. She offered me her hand like a lady would, and I took it and kissed it. She laughed, a high, silvery laugh that made Holmes and me both smile. "A pleasure," said I, "as was your performance tonight."

"Oh, you saw the play, did you?" Miss Bainbridge asked. "Well, thank you very much, in that case."

"I found him sitting in the audience after everyone else had gone. Saxby came back to say the Doctor here wanted something to do with me, but really he was just—"

"In awe," I offered, as Holmes paused to choose a word. "I haven't seen theatre like that in quite a long time."

Miss Bainbridge blushed. "Oh, now you're flattering, Doctor. Shame on you."

A voice across the room called her name, and she looked up, head cocked in query, her heart-shaped face the picture of innocence; no trace visible of the anguish I had seen in Ophelia. Incredible, mercurial creatures, actors.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, I have to settle an argument," Miss Bainbridge said, and removed herself from Holmes's light embrace. She blew Holmes a kiss as she left, and swanned off in the direction of her summons.

"Is she your sweetheart?" I asked, before I could stop myself. I felt my face flushing, and I lifted my glass to my lips to hide it.

Holmes slanted me an unreadable look, and then leaned forward to rest his chin upon his hand, gazing in her direction. His eyes became hooded, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "I am in love with her every night," he said, "and every night it is my love that kills her."

I swallowed the sip I had taken. "I do believe you’re teasing me," said I.

He grinned. "I’d never be so presumptuous."

"Now I know you are."

Holmes reached across the table for my hand, and his long fingers paused surreptitiously at my wrist, taking my pulse. I caught his hand in mine and squeezed it. In the low light, Holmes’s quicksilver gaze made my heart flutter. There were still smudges of kohl around his eyes, which made him look especially exotic and dangerous. I hadn't been on the receiving end of such an overt flirtation from a man in so long, and I was finding it quite a thrill. Holmes clearly knew how to convey what he wanted, and I was not immune to his charms.

"Well," he said, as our hands slid apart, "perhaps I can’t resist." Flashing me another half-smile, he fished a cigarette out of his pocket and put it between his lips. I fumbled for a match, struck it on the taut knee of my trousers, and cupped my hand around it as I offered it to him. Again our eyes met, over the tip of the cigarette as he inhaled. I shook the match out and he leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

"You don’t mind the smell, I hope?" he asked.

"I always smoke ‘ship’s’ myself," I admitted.

"What are you doing tomorrow night?"

"Nothing," I said. I managed not to admit that I was rarely doing anything of note at all.

"Come and see me again," he said, taking another drag on the cigarette. "After the performance, I’ll show you what goes on backstage."

I suppressed a shudder of excitement. "I would probably enjoy that."

"Oh, Doctor," Holmes said, "I'm certain that you would."

I didn't know what to say to that, but from Holmes's delighted laugh I'm sure that my face said everything I needed it to. I turned my glass around in its ring upon the table, biting my lip. "Very well," I said finally. "Tomorrow night."

\---

I remember every minute of the rest of that evening, but most of it does not bear telling. We were surrounded by the _Hamlet_ company, and so even when Holmes shifted his seat to make room for someone, thereby taking up a place beside me with his long thigh an inch from mine and his arm draped along the back of my chair, there was nothing but polite distance between us. His fellow actors gave us a few knowing looks— one of them went so far as to wink at me— but no one brought the subject up. We were the soul of decency, even as I thrilled at the brush of his thumb against the back of my shoulder.

Finally, when the hours of the night were growing small and the little public house was beginning to quiet, Holmes handed me my overcoat and donned his own. Bundled up against the cold, we stepped outside together, Holmes bidding what fellow actors remained goodnight and I lingering at his elbow, thanking whoever caught my eye for the evening's entertainment and company. Then the cold air as we crossed the threshold made the breath catch in my chest.

Holmes pulled his muffler up around his nose and glanced at me. "Which way are your lodgings?"

"That way," I said, indicating.

"Excellent," Holmes said. "I'm headed that way as well. May I walk with you?"

"Certainly," I said, feeling that hopeful swoop in the pit of my stomach again. We set off down the pavement side by side, elbows just brushing as we walked. I clenched my hand into a fist inside my coat pocket. My other hand already felt frozen around the head of my walking stick.

Holmes walked with me to the very door of my hotel, promising that he was only around the next corner, and when I stopped and said, "Thank you for tonight," he stuck out his hand for me to take. We shook once more, and he squeezed my fingers.

"Thank you," he said, "for coming, and for lingering unexpectedly."

"It was my pleasure," I said earnestly.

"Tomorrow night, then," said Holmes, smiling his own peculiar half-smile.

"Tomorrow night," I agreed.

I would have stayed there on the stoop, but the warmth of the hotel was beckoning, and Holmes was beginning to shiver. I let go of his hand reluctantly and went inside, glancing over my shoulder just before the door closed to see him still standing there, watching me. When I peeked out the transom window as I went up the stairs, I saw him walking back the way we had come. He'd gone out of his way for me after all, the liar, and the notion made warmth bloom in the middle of my chest.

I dressed for bed swiftly and silently, thinking over everything that had transpired. When I got into bed, however, my thoughts turned to everything that might yet happen. I couldn't afford to see the show again— I couldn't have afforded to see it the first time— but I could guess what time it would be over and what time the backstage would begin to clear out. If we had communicated properly, flirted overtly enough, I understood that I would not be getting an extensive tour of the mechanics of the stage nor a lengthy introduction to each member of the cast. I imagined I would see the hallway and the inside of Holmes's dressing room, and probably not much else.

It wouldn't do to make assumptions, however. I told myself not to get my hopes up, but it was much too late for that.


	2. Murder!

I found the Lyceum stage door in the gloom when the actors began to emerge, their breath steaming ahead of them into the cold night air. I approached the door as they came out, and was stopped by a burly attendant who put a hand on my chest.

"Help you?" he asked.

"I'm here to see… Mr Holmes," I said. "I was invited."

"Were you, indeed?" the attendant asked, peering into my face.

"Oh, come off it, Jim," one of the actors called from down the street. "You're not the Queen's guard!"

"Not quite," another one hollered, and they hooted with laughter together. I bit my tongue.

"I'm sorry," I said, "perhaps there's been a mistake."

"Perhaps there has," the attendant agreed, and I took a step away from the door.

"Watson!"

"Mr Holmes," the attendant said in surprise as Holmes pushed his way past and greeted me by grasping both my hands in his.

"Watson, do come in," he said. "Jesus, Jim, it's freezing out here, what are you thinking?"

"Mr Holmes, you know you're supposed to let me know if you're expecting a visitor."

"I wasn't certain he was going to come," Holmes said, winking at me. He hadn't finished wiping off his make-up, and he looked strange and dramatic in the flickering gas light of the hallway. "Jim, you're a brute, get out of the way."

"Beggin' your pardon," Jim said to me, but not very sincerely, and Holmes pulled me past and down the hall.

"My deepest apologies," Holmes said, letting go of only one of my hands. "Jim takes his post very seriously, except when he's nipping out for a sip of whisky, or trying to get one of the chorus girls to look twice at him."

"Chorus girls?" I asked in confusion.

"They're in the matinee. Were you outside for long?"

“Only a few minutes,” I said. I’d walked from my hotel and misjudged how long it would take for the actors to come out once the audience had departed. I couldn’t feel my little toes.

Holmes narrowed his eyes at me. He opened a door off the hallway and ushered me inside. “You didn’t come to see the show again,” he said, closing it behind him and taking my coat off my shoulders. I let him have it and looked around.

The dressing room was tiny, a mirrored dressing table taking up most of the space, with a wooden chair in front of it. Two gas lamps lit the room completely, showing water-damaged plaster in the corner of the ceiling, the peeling crimson paint along the walls that were stained with ancient candle smoke, the bare wooden floor. There was a rack of costumes crammed in beside the dressing table, plush doublets and leather breeches and woollen hose, onto which Holmes hung my overcoat. He balanced my hat on top of the coat, and turned to me expectantly.

“No,” I said. “I’m afraid I… couldn’t make it.”

He allowed me the dignity of the white lie and sank down into his chair, facing the mirror. I was left to stand behind him, taking up the rest of the available floor space, and to watch his reflection in the polished silver as he took up the sponge he had discarded. It was already damp and a little smeared with paint, and he dragged a clean corner across his closed eyelids as he spoke.

“That’s all right,” he said, “I think I was distracted today. I didn’t perform as well as I did last night."

"You were splendid last night."

He smiled, and wiped rouge off of his mouth. "You said that already."

"I'll say it again if you like." His conceit was rather charming, and the blush on his cheeks was from more than just paint.

"Thank you," Holmes replied, dropping his eyes coyly from mine in the mirror.

"How did you know I hadn't seen it?" I asked.

Holmes put the sponge down and turned around to regard me seriously. "Your coat was very cold, colder than it would have been if you'd just come right from the house. You were limping a little when you came in, but not as much as you were after you'd been sitting for three hours last night, so you had been walking instead. It was the chill that made you unsteady, rather than inaction. And, your ticket stub from yesterday is still in your jacket pocket."

I patted my pocket and discovered he was right; the torn edge was sticking out of the top. "You noticed all that? In an instant?"

He shrugged. "It's my training."

"Surely that's not what they teach you at a drama school."

"I never said I went to a drama school," Holmes said, turning up his nose.

"What then?" I asked, laughing. "Don't tell me you're an Oxford man."

He scoffed.

"Cambridge?"

"I went in for chemistry, if you must know."

"And?"

"And now I'm an actor, so perhaps you can guess how well that went."

"You were sent down."

"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes said, standing up and taking a step towards me that all but closed the gap between us. "I was top of my class, but I got bored. Now are you going to interrogate me all night, or will you kiss me instead?"

His mouth was on mine before I could protest, and I found a grip upon his slim hips at once. He tasted a little like grease paint, but then I parted his lips and forgot the oily sensation in favor of the warm, sweet glide of his tongue against mine. He groaned, taking my lapels in both hands and drawing me closer to him, and together we fell back against the dressing room door.

He wasn’t wearing drawers under his trousers; I could tell by the feel of a single layer of fabric under my palms, and I boldly swept my hands around the curve of his arse to pull his hips against mine. He laughed against my mouth and allowed himself to be shifted, until I could feel the hot, promising bulk of his groin against mine. He wasn’t hard yet, nor was I, but it didn’t take much friction before I felt myself stiffening. Holmes had to bend his knees to press himself between my thighs, and I wondered for a dizzying moment whether he could lift me against the door. From the feel of the muscles in his backside, he might be able to.

“Doctor,” Holmes murmured, breaking the kiss to press his mouth to the underside of my jaw, “I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward.”

“God, no,” I said, tipping my head back to give him room to nibble his way down my throat. “I think you’ve hit upon the matter exactly.”

Holmes’s laugh vibrated through me, and he pressed a last kiss to the hollow of my throat above my collar before lifting his head to look into my eyes. We were silent, the only sound our synchronic breathing, and then he kissed me again, more softly this time.

I let go of his arse to curl my hand around the back of his neck, slipping my fingertips into his hair. He was warm all along my front, a sensation I had not experienced for many months. The comfort of another’s body was already doing me quite a lot of good, and I felt energetic and hot with anticipation, as I had not felt since I’d had the sun of India upon my face. Holmes’s next kiss was hungry and confident, his tongue clever and bold, and his hands on my chest did not hesitate as they began to unfasten my shirt buttons.

“Sit on the chair,” he rumbled, pulling away and turning me around. I sat as directed, and he stepped neatly over my leg, between the chair and the dressing table, settling himself across my lap. He was heavier than he looked, a pleasing weight I attributed to the firm musculature I felt hidden beneath his shirt.

Holmes slipped my collar free, and then the rest of my shirt buttons were undone in record time. He was tugging my vest out of my trousers with the tails of my shirt a moment later, and then his long, slender hands were upon my skin.

I realized, with a cold shock of shame and fear, that if he undressed me now he would see my wounds. I saw them myself every morning, and I did my best not to. In this well-lit little room, they would be unmistakable. The crater of my shoulder was horrible to look upon, red and gnarled with new scar tissue, and my thigh was little better. I was lucky to have gotten away with all my masculine parts intact, and a man as observant as Holmes might pick up on that. This was not the first erection I'd experienced in the six months since my injury, but it was the only one so far that had lasted.

Holmes must have sensed my sudden unease, for he went still and looked down into my face. His palms were warm on my ribs.

“We won’t be interrupted,” he said, “but if you prefer we needn’t, er… give ourselves over entirely to indiscretion.”

I swallowed my anxiety and smiled up at him, taking a firm hold upon his spread thighs and pressing my hips up against his backside. It made his eyelids flutter, and he bent again to kiss my mouth.

“Adventurous but sensible,” he murmured. “I like that in a fellow.”

His kisses began to wander, and now that my collar and shirt was undone he had free reign of my throat and clavicle. With a little experimentation he found every sensitive place on my neck, and soon had me gasping and writhing under his tender, deliberate ministrations. I could feel the press of his cock-stand against my belly, and I worked a hand between us to cup it through his trousers.

“Watson,” he gasped, breaking off and pressing his face into my neck.

His cock was long and slim, like the rest of him, and it jumped under my palm most gratifyingly. Holmes's hips pushed against my hand, driving the head of his prick against my wrist. I bit gently at his throat, which brought about another delightful low moan.

I decided we had an imbalance in our state of dress, so I let go of him to unfasten the buttons on his shirt. He helped me along, and we met in the middle. The skin of his torso was smooth and pale and warm, and his dark, flat nipples tightened beneath my fingers. He squirmed, tossing his head back, in a move that was almost certainly calculated to give me the best view of him from the well-defined cut of his abdomen to his bobbing Adam's apple. I bent my head to take one nipple between my teeth, and instantly his hand clapped upon the back of my head.

If there had been more space in that room, or perhaps a surface not covered with paint pots and rouge brushes and fake blood in the bladder of a chicken, or if I trusted my leg to hold us both, I would have picked him up then and laid him out under me. He seemed very amenable to that sort of arrangement, and I only regretted that I couldn't act on the impulse at once. Instead, I pushed my hands up the length of his back and held him, worrying his nipple with my lips and tongue until he was actually whimpering aloud.

"Enough," he said breathlessly, pushing me away with gentle but unmistakable force. "I mustn't let you bring about the end too soon."

"Is that a concern of yours?" I inquired, nipping his fingers. He grinned and stroked my cheek, then turned my face up to meet him for a kiss.

"I had not anticipated it," he murmured against my lips, "but it appears I must take into consideration how strongly you make me feel."

I swallowed hard and clutched him to me, kissing him deeply. He moaned, cupping my face in his hands.

During this whole time, I had been peripherally aware of the sound of doors opening and closing along the corridor, feet in the passage beyond, and voices and laughter; they were Holmes's company members, departing for the night and looking forward to the morrow's day off. We had been rather quiet, Holmes and I, as we were both aware through experience and observation, respectively, how much sound would travel through the walls. Now, as I considered the best way to have my way with Holmes in this chair in this tiny dressing room, there was a commotion next door. 

We both hesitated, listening, and heard the crash of a tray, or perhaps a table, falling to the floor and sending all of its contents scattering. Holmes sat up straight, his eyes going hard and sharp, looking for all the world like a bloodhound put upon a scent. Then there was the sound of a door opening, followed by a wet thud. Immediately after that, a woman's scream rent the air.

\---

Holmes was already halfway off my lap when we heard the scream, and the sound launched us both into action. He had the presence of mind to button one or two of his shirt buttons, but he did not apparently care for the rest of his state of undress or arousal— though mine had been thoroughly doused as though with a bucket of cold water at the sound of screaming— as he leapt for the door and nearly tore it off its hinges in opening it. I went after him in my own dishabille, and we emerged from the dressing room onto a horrifying scene.

The woman screaming was the young lady I'd met the night before, Lydia Bainbridge. She was flattened against the wall of the corridor with a slim young gentleman in a neat gray suit half-shielding her, trying to quiet her. Between her and Holmes, on the floor, was the form of a man lying face-down, surrounded by a widening pool of blood.

I pushed past Holmes and knelt in it, the thick, metallic smell filling my nose and transporting me instantly to another world. I felt for a pulse and found it, thready and weak, but unmistakable.

"He's alive," I said, "send for the police. You!" I pointed at the young man, "Send for the police, for God's sake. Holmes, where are y— Holmes, help me turn him over."

Holmes did, with an admirable disregard for the blood that now covered the wood floor, my trousers and hands, and the man that lay there. We rolled him over, and I heard Holmes stifle a cough. The hilt of a clasp knife protruded from the fellow's abdomen, almost six inches long. Immediately I began to calculate how deep the blade must have gone, at what angle, and how much blood he had already lost judging by the flow now. It had almost certainly cut his descending aorta, and the blood gushing from around the hilt was nothing compared to what would be hemorrhaging internally. I tore off my shirt, grateful now that the buttons were undone, and wrapped it around the knife, pressing hard against the wound and watching the fabric vainly soaking up the blood as more spilled out.

Over the roar in my ears, I heard Holmes shouting, "Stand back, stand back! Watson is a doctor. Stand back, I say!"

The man in my lap moved, lifting one hand to grab at my vest, the other to point a shaking finger down the hallway behind me. I grasped his hand and bent close to him as he opened his mouth, but what words he might have spoken came out in a wet gurgle, blood bubbling out from between his lips. His face twisted in agony, his hands spasming, and I thought I heard the boom of artillery over my head. I ducked, my throat closing up with fear, and pushed harder with my now-ruined shirt. A soldier was dying in my arms, and I had none of my medical kit to hand, no support of other medics, no peace from the crash of the bombs and the screams of the Ghazis. The line was folding, and we were surrounded. The hand on my vest loosened and I cried, "No!" with my blood-soaked shirt wet between my fists. "Stay with me, God damn you, Sutton! Stay with me."

His grip went entirely lax, and I felt more than I heard the last breath escape his lips. The blood still pulsed sluggishly out, darkening my trousers, but as his heart stopped the force of the expulsion slackened. I cursed him again, this shell of what had been a man and whom I had failed. I'd failed him again.

Then there were hands upon my shoulders, pulling me away, and I allowed it. I was numb, exhausted, and I looked up to find myself not crouching in the desert sand but upon the wooden floor of a theatre, surrounded by strangers. It was Holmes who was drawing me away; I clung to him, leaving bloody handprints on his shirtsleeves. He pushed his way through the small crowd that had formed and led me into his dressing room again. My legs gave out beneath me.

"Easy," Holmes said, helping me to sit against the wall inside, "easy now. Show me your hands, Watson."

I showed him, now swallowing back unmanly tears. I was red to the wrists, marked with death all over my front. My vest and trousers would be unsalvageable. Holmes left my blurring field of vision for a moment and then came back, a wet rag in his hands. Crouched in front of me he began to clean the blood from my hands, and I began to cry silently.

Holmes glanced up at me in surprise and said, "Oh, my dear fellow."

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my heart in my throat.

"Please do not apologize," Holmes said softly, cleaning each of my fingers individually, wiping the blood from beneath my fingernails. "Who is Sutton?"

I shook my head. "I couldn't save him."

"Sutton? Or Sterling?"

"Any of them."

Holmes folded both my hands between his. "Doctor," he said, and I winced at the title, "listen to me. No one could have saved him. You did the only thing you could, which was more than anyone else could immediately offer. No, look at me. Sutton was killed as a casualty of war, and Sterling was undoubtedly murdered. You could not have prevented their deaths any more than you could have stopped the sun from rising this morning."

The mention of murder brought me somewhat to my senses. "What do you mean, murdered?"

"He didn't fall upon his own knife," Holmes said, scowling. "When I find out who the knife belonged to, its owner will have quite a lot to answer for. How are you feeling?"

I had stopped weeping by then, and when I lifted the back of my hand to wipe my face it didn't leave a smear of blood. I took shaky breath, and then another, and nodded. "You didn't have to do that," I said, indicating the bloody rag.

"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes snorted, tossing it away towards the dressing table. "You're an absolute mess, and I can't let you go back out there and talk to the police covered head to toe."

"The police?"

"They'll be here in half an hour, I have no doubt. Do you feel well enough to give them your account?"

I nodded again. I was curled up almost into a ball, my knees to my chin. Holmes shifted from his crouch to rest on his knees on either side of my feet, and he touched my cheek tenderly. I leaned into the touch, and a moment later he had embraced me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and guiding my forehead to rest upon his clavicle. The tang of blood covered us both, but under it I could detect the smell of greasepaint and tobacco smoke and the salt on his skin. I breathed deeply.

\---

By the time the police arrived, I had quite recovered myself. I was upright, for one, and the sight of Sterling's body on the floor no longer reminded me of the young soldier Sutton. The blood was beginning to dry, growing glossy and tacky on the floor, but the members of the company that were left submitted to Holmes's demand that they not begin to clean it up.

Miss Bainbridge was no longer screaming, but she was very pale. Her companion had an arm around her and was whispering in her ear. One of the Players, another young lady, was crying silently, her eyes fixed on Sterling's slack face. The rest of us stood there and waited in the eye of the storm.

As soon as the police arrived, we were ushered as a group away from the scene and sent to wait in the theatre box office. Holmes introduced me to the director, Irving, who shook my hand solemnly and thanked me for what I'd done.

Then we were taken aside and interviewed, one by one. A sallow, rat-faced Inspector took a long look at the blood that was drying on my front, as well as my shocking state of undress, and said, “Now, sir, tell me what happened. In your own words please.”

I cleared my throat. Holmes had advised me, quite unnecessarily, to leave out the details prior to the murder. I told the Inspector what had happened after we’d heard the crash and the scream, also eliminating the part where I’d imagined I was back in Afghanistan. The Inspector scribbled as I talked and nodded his head, but was otherwise silent.

When I’d finished, he said, “You didn’t see anyone leaving?”

“No.”

“Not when you came into the theatre?”

“Yes, of course, but that was before. Mr Sterling couldn’t have been stabbed when I’d arrived and only later emerged into the hallway. He was bleeding profusely; he might have had ten minutes at most between being stabbed and falling through the doorway.”

“How long were you in the dressing room with Mr Holmes?”

“Perhaps twenty minutes.”

“And you heard nothing before crash?”

“People outside the room,” I said, “but nothing that would suggest this kind of-- attack.”

The Inspector snapped his notebook shut. “Well,” he said, “thank you for your time, Doctor. We may need to be in touch, but until then you’re free to go.”

I found Holmes waiting for me at the theatre door, dressed in all his own clothes again, shod and in his overcoat, holding my own coat out.

“I’m afraid they took your shirt,” he said solemnly, helping me into the coat. “Shall I walk you home?”

“No,” I said, buttoning the coat up and giving him what passed for a smile. “Thank you. I think I-- I had better go alone.”

\---

Once I reached my hotel, I stripped myself of my stiff, sticky clothes and threw them in the corner. I thought about taking them into the alley and burning them. I didn't do it right away. I washed, the water in my basin cold as ice, and slipped into my nightshirt, shivering. The pile of blankets did very little to warm me up again. I heard midnight, then one, then two o'clock, and stared out the window at the sky beyond, telling myself I could close my eyes and go to sleep any minute.

I missed three and four in the morning, but awoke just after five with my heart in my throat, feeling blood upon my hands. I got up and paced the room, the carpet wearing down under my feet. My leg ached, but I pushed through the discomfort and soon it had loosened up and my gait was as near to normal as it was bound to be. 

I kept replaying the moment Holmes and I had emerged into the hallway to find Sterling upon the floor, and wondering if we had not been so wrapped up in each other might we have heard his attacker? Could we have saved him? Could we have prevented the tragedy altogether?

But it was no use.


	3. The Investigation Begins

Just shy of six, I was snapped from my melancholy by a smart rap upon the door. I went to unlock it, remembered I was still in my night shirt and dressing gown, and pulled it open a crack, just enough to poke my head out.

"I'm sorry to knock you up so early, Watson," Sherlock Holmes said, his hat tucked under one arm.

My heart gave a strange leap in my chest, and I found myself smiling despite the night I’d had. "I wasn't asleep," I admitted. "Come in."

Holmes stepped into my little room, took a prolonged look around at my meagre belongings, my well-tossed bedclothes, my shaving kit on the basin, and then settled his attention on me. "I came because I feel I owe you an apology for last night."

"Good heavens, Holmes, not in the slightest!" I said, closing the door behind him. "You couldn't have known a man would be killed next door while we— that is—"

Holmes smiled, despite the gravity of what had happened. "No," he said, "but it was at my request you were there at all, and I regret it."

"I don't," I said softly. "Up until a certain point, that is."

"Yes," Holmes said, "well, I happen to agree with you, actually. Up until a point, things were moving along rather favorably."

We smiled at one another for a moment, shy and foolish, and then Holmes cleared his throat.

"The other reason I came was because I was not satisfied with the way the police handled things last night. Do you know they arrested Ned Bingham, Sterling's understudy?"

I shook my head. I didn’t even know who Ned Bingham was.

"No, of course not," Holmes chided himself, "you were gone by then. But they did, and it's absolutely absurd."

"Sit down and tell me why," I said, indicating the chair, and I seated myself on the edge of my bed. Holmes hung his hat on the bedpost and sat, crossing one long leg over the other and leaning back, pressing his fingertips together beneath his chin. 

"Ned has been with the company for about four years, give or take a few months," he began. "He's a quiet fellow, studious, an absolute wonder with memorization and mimicry. Most actors will create their own inner story for a character on stage and inhabit them differently from other actors who have played the same role, but Ned can watch a man on stage for twenty minutes and then play the same character the exact same way. You almost wouldn't know the original actor had been replaced."

"They think he killed Sterling to take over his part," I suggested.

"Exactly." Holmes's face had taken on a languid, contemplative expression, his eyes slitted and the briefest glimmer of silver visible under his eyelashes. He almost looked asleep.

"Why is that absurd?"

"When he plays his own characters they come off a little flat, so Irving gives him bit parts to keep him on stage and has him study for the leading parts just in case."

"After four years," I said, "is it so unthinkable that he might want a larger role of his own? You said you've been with the company six years, and you're a leading man."

Holmes graced me with a pleased little smile and said, "Because Ned doesn't have that kind of ambition. Irving has tried to cast him in large parts and he's turned them down. He prefers to work as an understudy, play a lead for a night or two, and give it back when the original actor is in full form again. He's done it for me once or twice, but he always looks so grateful when he can get out of the limelight."

I frowned. "If it wasn't him, then, who was it?"

"That," Holmes said, bursting suddenly into motion once again, springing out of the chair and twirling his hat onto his head, "is what I mean to discover. I'm going to the theatre this morning, Watson, and I should like it very much if you would accompany me."

"Isn't it closed?" I asked.

"Decidedly."

"Do you have a key?"

"I do not."

"Then you propose to break in," said I.

"I do. I want another look at that storage room room, to see if anything left there can tell me about what happened just before he was stabbed. I want to inspect the hallway, to see if anything was dropped. I want to know the truth."

I stood up as well, not quite as majestic in my dressing gown and slippers. "Then I am your man," I said. "Give me just a moment to change."

Holmes beamed at me and took his leave with a swirl of his coattails. I dressed hurriedly, dipped my comb into my cold basin and combed my hair perfunctorily, ignored the shadow of stubble upon my jaw, and joined him in the hallway in less than five minutes, pulling on my overcoat. the sky was just beginning to lighten as we stepped onto the pavement, and nearby in a church tower the clock struck six.

We made our way in the pre-dawn light through the streets to the stage door of the theatre, where Holmes abruptly crouched and produced a cloth wallet from his pocket.

"Watch the street, Watson," he said, unrolling it to reveal a set of steel lock picks. I took up a position behind him, vigilant for observers, and for a few minutes there was only the sound of his picks in the door. Then the latch clicked, and the musty scent of the theatre wafted out, old sweat and sawdust, overlaid with the smell of blood.

Holmes glanced back at me before opening the door all the way. I nodded in reassurance, and together we stepped through into the hallway.

The hall was dark and eerie, the rectangle of light thrown by the open door not enough to illuminate its considerable length. Holmes reached past me, groping along the wall, and then I heard the hiss of the gas. Holmes produced a match and lit the first lamp. In its light, we could see the dark patch on the floor, way down at the other end, where Orrick Sterling had met his death.

"Come along, Watson," Holmes said softly. I shut the door behind us.

The blood was dried by now and stained the floor so deeply it might have to be torn up and replaced. The smell of it filled my nose, but it was stale now and I was able to keep my wits about me. Holmes stepped up to the edge of it and crouched, peering at the floor where Sterling's body had lain.

I wasn't certain what he wanted me to do in the meantime, so I stepped over him and into the storage room.

The tray that had spilled had been left exactly as it had fallen, and powders and oils were all over the floor. Doing my best not to disturb them, I tip-toed around the edge of the room. There wasn't any more space in here than there had been in Holmes's dressing room, but the chaos in here was significantly worse.

A costume rack had been shoved and partially upset, and there was a smear of blood across four or five plush doublets. There was also blood in streak along the floor from built-in shelves full of props and tarps to the costumes, and then a handprint on the door frame. Sterling had been stabbed as he stood at the shelves, I surmised, and had staggered across the room and out into the hall.

By now Holmes had completed his examination of the stain outside, and he and his overcoat fairly filled the doorway. I glanced up at him from my precarious position between the costume rack and the powdered rouge.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"The amount of blood on the floor here," I said, pointing, "suggests that Sterling was stabbed at least five minutes before he was able to get out the door."

"Giving his killer plenty of time to slip away," Holmes said. He stepped into the room, following the same path I had taken around the make-up. "This was knocked over as Sterling crossed the room. It could conceal any number of things about the murderer, but if we clean it up we may ruin whatever evidence we're looking for anyway. Likewise, the blood in the hallway entirely obliterates any footmarks that might have been left. We'll have to rely on our other facts, Watson."

"What other facts?"

"Sterling knew the killer," Holmes said. "He was standing there—" pointing at the shelves— "but he did not raise the alarm. What the hell was he doing in here, anyway? No matter. We will find that out. Perhaps the killer threatened him if he were to call out. The knife certainly would win a few arguments. Jim, the charming doorman you met last night, would have noted the presence of someone unfamiliar backstage— he took particular interest in you and tried to put the police onto your trail last night— so it was someone who was already backstage and who would not have caused any significant uproar by arriving or leaving. Inference: it was a member of the company."

I sucked in a breath. "Surely you don't suspect someone in the play?"

Holmes glanced at me, frowning. "Of course I do. Sterling knew who it was, didn't object to their presence, and they were able to get out past Jim last night without attracting any attention whatsoever. There is a murderer among us, Watson, and we've got to identify them."

"Do you think anyone else is in danger?"

"I don't know," Holmes said. "I don't have enough of the facts yet. But I am loath to risk the lives of any of the rest of my company. We need to move quickly."

"You keep saying 'we,'" I said, following him back out of the dressing room. "Why have you included me?"

Holmes stopped in the hallway and turned to me. He looked at me carefully, assessing, and tucked his hands into his pockets.

"I saw something in you last night," he said, "before Sterling died. You were magnificent. You leapt into action, and you didn't even know the man."

"No—" I began.

"You want to know the answers to this as much as I do," Holmes insisted. "Tell me that isn't true. Just an hour ago, you said you were with me. Are you still?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good." Holmes flashed me a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I've learned everything I can from this. We need to go talk to Lydia."

"Ophelia."

“She was the first to see him," Holmes agreed as we made our way back to the stage door. "I need to know what else she saw."

+++

Miss Lydia Bainbridge stepped back to allow us into her second floor flat, still looking a little shaken from the night before. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face, but wisps of it escaped the untidy bun she had made, and her blue eyes were rimmed red. Nevertheless, she was effortlessly beautiful, looking for all the world as though she didn't care how we saw her. The kiss Holmes placed upon her cheek as he greeted her suggested they were familiar enough that it didn't matter.

"Lovely to see you again too, Doctor Watson," Miss Bainbridge said, smiling weakly at me. She closed the door behind us. "Billie's just put the kettle on, if you'd like a cup of tea."

"Thank you," Holmes said, unwrapping his muffler and shucking his coat. I followed suit, and Holmes hung both on the rack by the door. Miss Bainbridge ushered us to the settee in front of the brightly burning fireplace and took a seat in the overstuffed armchair on the other side. Through the doorway behind her, I saw the slim young man from last night, in shirtsleeves and braces, pulling tea cups out of a cupboard.

Miss Bainbridge leaned over and took my hand. "Doctor Watson," she said, "what you did last night— what you tried to do for Orrick— it was valiant. Thank you."

I didn't know what to say, so I patted her hand and managed a smile. We all sat in silence for a moment before Holmes spoke up.

"Lydia," he said, "will you tell us what happened?"

"Oh, why must I?" she lamented, throwing herself back in her chair and putting an arm across her eyes. "It was so horrible, Sherlock!"

"They've arrested Ned," Holmes said.

"No!" Miss Bainbridge sat up again. "They don't think it was him, do they?"

He nodded solemnly. "They do, but I happen to disagree."

"Ned would never do something like that," Miss Bainbridge said softly.

"Watson and I are going to investigate," Holmes said. "The police have the wrong man, but if they're not going to listen to reason then someone's got to do something about it."

"What, you? Sherlock, you're not— you're not serious. My God, you are serious. Why, in heaven's name?"

"Because they have the wrong—"

"Why you, Sherlock? What have you got to do with it? You're an actor, not a detective. Think of the trouble you could be getting yourself into. It could be dangerous. And dragging poor Doctor Watson along, too."

Holmes bristled, straightening his spine and splaying his hands upon his knees. "I need to know the truth," he said. "I know Ned, and I know the company, and I'm not going to let the police blunder their way through this. They're going to make a hash of it. You talked to that Inspector last night—"

"What was his name?" Miss Bainbridge asked.

"Lestrade," I offered.

"Inspector Lestrade," Holmes agreed. "He's not a complete idiot, but he doesn't know anything about us. Lydia, please."

"All right," she sighed. "But I don't know how I can help you."

At that moment, the young man came in with a tea tray and set it down on the table between us. As he sat down beside Miss Bainbridge, I realized with a shock that it wasn't a young man at all: it was a slender, square-jawed young woman. She was dressed in men's duds tailored to her boyish frame, and her glossy, chestnut hair had been cut very short, but now that I could see her face she was unmistakable female. She had a delicate nose and fine, high cheekbones, and her brown eyes were warm and intelligent. She looked directly into my face, daring me to question her, and stuck out her hand.

"Doctor Watson, I presume," she said. "Billie Wilder."

We shook hands over the tray, and I swallowed every remark that came to mind.

"Wilder," Holmes said, "you were there as well, weren't you?"

"Yes," Miss Wilder said, picking up the teapot and pouring, "although as Lydia says, we hardly saw anything."

Holmes leaned back against the cushions, crossed one leg over the other, and closed his eyes. "Tell me exactly, exactly, what happened. Leave nothing out."

Miss Bainbridge took her tea cup in both hands and lifted it to her lips. She blew across the surface, thinking, and began.

"Billie was waiting for me in my dressing room after the show. We had planned to walk home together. I changed out of my costume and took off my make-up, and I didn't hear a thing. We were talking about— oh God, I don't remem— taking a holiday, that was it. To Kent."

"I heard the door to the storage room open and close," Miss Wilder said. "At least, I think it was that door."

"What time was that?" Holmes demanded.

"Nine, or perhaps just after."

"Excellent. Please continue."

"We stayed a little while longer, while Lydia washed her face, and then we picked up our things and went into the hallway."

"Was there anyone there?"

"Jim was at the stage door," Miss Bainbridge said, squeezing her eyes shut. "He'd just let a group out. I think he was calling after them. Lily was there, too. She was outside the matinee girls' dressing room when Orrick— when he came out of the storage room."

Miss Wilder's hand drifted over to Miss Bainbridge's knee and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Lily Sellars was romantically involved with Sterling," Holmes said, to clarify for me.

"Yes," Miss Bainbridge confirmed. "They'd been seeing one another for a few months, maybe half a year."

"Did anyone else know?" I asked.

"It is not difficult to notice that sort of thing," Holmes sighed, "when one practically lives among one's compatriots. You say she was in the hall?"

"She was standing in the dressing room doorway with her coat on," Miss Bainbridge said, sitting up straight. "Oh God, Sherlock, you don't think—?"

"It won't do to jump to conclusions, like that, Lydia," Holmes said sternly, which seemed to calm the young actress. "Watson and I will go call upon her this morning and see if she can tell us anything."

"You're going to find him, aren't you?" Miss Bainbridge said. "Whoever killed Orrick? You're really going to do it."

"I am certainly endeavouring to," Holmes said.

We finished our tea over lighter conversation, and finally Sherlock Holmes stood up from the sofa. Miss Brainbridge, Miss Wilder, and I all followed suit. Our hostess knotted her fingers together, and then shook them apart and pushed her hair out of her face. 

"I'm sorry I can't tell you more, Sherlock," she said, "but if there's anything else I can do, just say the word. We're at your disposal."

"Up until a point," Miss Wilder put in.

"Billie!"

"I don't want him putting you in danger," Miss Wilder said, "no disrespect, Mr Holmes."

"None taken, Wilder. I understand your hesitation. Lydia, if I need something, I will let you know. Thank you both. Come, Watson."

+++

“I know you’ve already talked to the police, Lily,” Holmes said, when we had been shown into the drawing room of Miss Sellar’s boarding house, "and I'm sure you're tired of repeating it, but could you possibly go over what happened last night again?"

Miss Sellars was seated on a settee in front of the blazing fire, flanked by a gentleman on either side. The one on her left I recognized as the actor who had played King Claudius, and though he no longer wore his robes and crown, the air of authority had not left him. But instead of the cold, shrewd man I had seen on stage, this man was patting Miss Sellars’ hand and holding a fresh handkerchief for her, like a kindly grandfather might do. That was Gregory Churchley, Holmes had whispered in my ear as we’d come in. He’d been in the company the longest, apparently, and Miss Sellars was turned slightly toward him, seeking his comfort.

The other fellow on Miss Sellars’ right was younger, though a little older than Holmes and myself, and certainly older than Miss Sellars. He had an arm around her, despite the stiff set of her shoulders, trying to compensate for the distance she had created between them. I recognised at once the look of a man eager to replace an old flame, and I felt the bile rise in my throat. Sterling was less than twenty-four hours dead, and this fellow wasn’t losing any time.

“Quincy Dudley,” Holmes had muttered, with no further explanation.

"Now, look here, Holmes," Dudley said, taking a hand off Miss Sellars in order to point his finger at Holmes. "What do you mean, barging in here and interrogating her? Lily has been through far too much to be subjected to this sort of indecency. And just who, exactly, is this man?"

"This is my colleague, Doctor Watson," Holmes said stiffly, his eyes narrowed at the young man. 

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Miss Sellars," I said, looking past Dudley and sitting down across from the young actress.

"Thank you, Doctor," Miss Sellars sniffled. "You were the one who tried to save him. Thank you."

I nodded silently and sat back. I could feel the blood on my hands again. Holmes cleared his throat lightly, drawing the attention back to himself, and I breathed a little easier. I didn't know how much more gratitude I could take.

"Lily," he said, "I want to get to the bottom of this. You were in the hallway when Orrick emerged. Tell me what you saw."

"Are you a detective now, too, Holmes?" Dudley demanded. "This is absolute nonsense."

"I hardly saw anything," Miss Sellars began.

Dudley snorted, his round face contorting with disdain. "It's disgusting, making her go over it again."

"Quiet, Dudley," Mr Churchley said, his voice a deep, resonating rumble. "Let the girl talk."

Miss Sellars flashed him a watery, grateful smile, and fixed her limpid eyes on Holmes. "Orrick and I— we were engaged to be married," she managed, and the tears began to flow again. "We were supposed to walk home together last night."

"Why was Sterling in the storage closet?" Holmes asked.

Sniffling, Miss Sellars glanced sidelong at her two knights errant and said, "I— I don't know, Mr Holmes."

"She doesn't know, damn it," Dudley put in. "Stop your infernal meddling."

"Dudley, Mr Churchley, could you excuse us for a few minutes?" Holmes said, looking intently at Miss Sellars. "Thank you."

Dudley's expression was one of badly disguised displeasure. "I'm not going to leave her alone," he protested, "not with the likes of _you lot_." That, he directed half at me as well, which made me fight the urge to scowl and demand to know what he meant by that. I knew perfectly well what he meant—Holmes's preference for men of a certain sort was not exactly a secret among the company, it appeared—but I was ready to come to blows over the morality of the issue. Dudley didn't know a thing about me.

"We'll be outside," Mr Churchley said, getting up and taking Dudley firmly by the arm. Dudley squawked in protest, but he allowed himself to be dragged from the room.

"Lily, you may speak plainly with me," Holmes said when they were gone. "Doctor Watson and I want to get to the bottom of this. Anything you can tell us, any information at all, may help."

"We arranged to meet," Miss Sellars said, dabbing at her eyes. "We— we wanted a few minutes alone, before we went out in the cold. He'd brought me flowers and I— I thanked him for them."

"Was there any particular occasion for the flowers?" Holmes asked.

"We had quarreled," Miss Sellars said, her lower lip trembling. "I don't like the way he drinks sometimes, and he doesn't like my nagging him. Well, you were there, Mr Holmes, the night before last. He was taking advantage of the generosity at Punch, and he was embarrassing me."

"So he bought the flowers in an attempt to apologise."

Miss Sellars nodded. "I was going to tell him it weren't enough, that flowers couldn't buy my favour, but then we— well, we came to a sort of middle-ground."

I imagined their middle-ground was exactly the same sort of middle-ground Holmes and I had been finding last night. I didn't blame her for being vague.

"So, you were alone with him in the storage room," Holmes said. She nodded shakily. "What time was that?"

"Nine o'clock. I knew if I was gone too long, they'd notice I was missing from the dressing room and come looking."

"And when you left, he was alive?" I asked foolishly.

Her brave face crumpled for a moment, and she sobbed in despair, nodding. Then she regained her composure. "It took me no more than ten minutes to change and wash," she said. "I came out again and nearly ran straight into Wilder. That was when—"

"Yes," Holmes said, mercifully cutting her off. "Where did Sterling usually go to drink, when he wasn't with the company?"

"The Stoat and Barrel on Charlotte Street. It's where we met." Miss Sellars began to hiccup again, tears welling up in her wide, blue eyes.

"He was a regular there?"

She nodded. "He's got his gang of pals," she said. "They're going to be so upset."

"Will you go there tonight and tell them?" Holmes asked, more gently now.

She shook her head. "Not tonight. I can't stand the thought of it, so soon after—"

Behind us, Quincy Dudley burst back into the room. "I saw someone in the hall," he announced.

Holmes regarded him coolly, one eyebrow raised. His displeasure at the interruption was obvious. "Indeed?"

"Someone I didn't recognize," Dudley went on, now nodding in earnest. "He had a— a coat on."

"A coat," Holmes repeated. "In the winter, imagine that. Was he bearded or clean-shaven?"

Dudley's face clouded. "Bearded," he said, which made Holmes's eyebrow climb. "And he was wearing a hat that covered his face."

"When did you see him?"

"Just before I left," Dudley said. "I walked out with O'Kane and Gillings at nine, and he was in the hallway."

"Did you see him go into the storage room?"

"No, but he approached the door."

"Indeed." Holmes sat back, propping one elbow on the chair arm and tapping his fingers against his chin. "Miss Sellars, did you see this gentleman in the hallway?"

Miss Sellars shook her head. "Perhaps he was there after I left," she said. "Ask Jim, he might've seen him."

"Yes, I certainly will," Holmes said.

Mr Churchley, who had come in after Dudley, saw us out again.

“I don’t like this, Holmes,” he said to us in a low voice at the doorway. “Dudley’s been after Miss Lily since she joined the troupe.”

“I know,” Holmes said. “It’s good of you to stay with her.”

“It’s not that I think she’s in danger,” Churchley went on, “but I don’t think she particularly likes the attention. She doesn’t know how to tell him to piss off.”

Holmes snorted. “The duty may fall to you, I’m afraid. Has she any family that could come by?”

“I think she’s mentioned a sister.”

“Find the sister,” Holmes said. “I doubt she’d put up with Dudley hovering around like a fat mosquito. Give the girl some peace.”

Churchley shook both our hands. “Thanks again, Doctor,” he said.

“Not at all,” I mumbled, and followed Holmes out into the street.

+++

After we left Miss Sellars to the care of Mr Churchley and Mr Dudley, I insisted that we stop for lunch. It was nearly noon and we'd been on the case since dawn without a bite to eat. Holmes gave in with a deep sigh of resignation, meant to indicate that he wasn't used to adjusting his timetable for mere mortals, but he consumed half a sandwich and a cup of coffee with some gentle cajoling, and his mood improved.

"Where next?" I asked, when we emerged once more from the coffee house and were standing on the the corner of Drury Lane and High Holborn. "Should we talk to the police? Find out if they have any information we're missing?"

Holmes tucked his gloved hands into his pockets, frowning. "They'll object to our interest in the murder," he said. "Best not let them know we're investigating just yet."

"What about talking to the doorman, Jim? See if he saw that fellow in the coat that Mr Dudley saw?"

"Hmm, perhaps. He lives in Clerkenwell, so if we catch a cab we'll be there shortly."

"I can't," I said suddenly, remembering the day. "I've got— I've got to be somewhere."

Holmes looked at me in surprise. "Oh," he said, "of course. You… should go, if you must go."

"I have to pick up my pension," I admitted. "The queue will be 'round the block by now."

"Well, then by all means," Holmes said, smiling. "I will pay a visit to our esteemed doorman alone, then, and…" He hesitated, and the silence tugged at my heart. "Perhaps you will join me this evening for a drink at the Stoat and Barrel?"

"Sterling's favorite pub."

"Quite. I need to look at this from the other end: not who was in his dressing room, but who might have reason to be there. We will talk to his associates and try to create a fuller picture of Sterling, in order to learn who might benefit from his demise."

I nodded and stuck out my hand. "Tonight, at the Stoat and Barrel."

He took my hand and squeezed it between both of his. "Come to my rooms at Montague Street first," he said. "We will need to make some preparations."

We parted reluctantly, and I headed for the Royal Hospital and my fortnightly stipend. I stood in the cold for an hour with the other cripples and casualties of war, but soon enough I had money in my pocket. I returned to my hotel and took care of the weekly bill, then fell into my bed for a few hours' nap.

+++

The boarding house on Montague Street was three storeys high, and when I asked for Mr Holmes I was directed up to the very top floor. His door was standing open, revealing a single room with a bed, a wash basin, and an enormous cupboard. The bed was imperfectly made, the quilt crooked and the pillow off-centre. The wash basin was chipped china that had seen better days, but was sparkling clean. The cupboard was crammed to the gills with clothes of every color and hue— more jackets than I thought one man could own. Then again, perhaps the profusion of garments accounted for the sparsity of the rest of the room. Out of the narrow window, I could see the British Museum across the way, its dark panes of glass glimmering in the reflected street lamps.

"There you are!" Holmes cried, ushering me in. "I'm so glad you've come early, we can't possibly succeed in tonight's adventure with you looking like that."

"I beg your pardon," said I, looking down at my perfectly respectable, newly pressed jacket and trousers.

Holmes beamed at me. "You look impeccable," he said, "which won't do at all. Take off your jacket; it'll be safe here."

I obeyed, and hung my jacket and waistcoat on the post of his bed. In their stead, Holmes pulled out a series of woollen jumpers and ratty coats, which he held up to me one at a time, choosing the best and least-reputable combination.

"I thought actors were meant to leave their costumes at the theatre," I said, pulling another jumper over my head. It smelled of the inside of the cedar cupboard, and of Holmes himself: tobacco smoke and pomade.

Holmes snorted. "These are my own personal collection," he said. "They don't supply a fellow with much down there. I have to buy all my own paints and make-up, and I don't think I've ever worn a costume that hadn't been altered six times to fit the actors who came before me. I usually have to alter them again."

"You can sew?"

For a moment he looked embarrassed. "No," he said. "I have my tailor do it."

That raised further questions, but he cut me off.

"Put this on," he said, handing me a soft cloth cap with a brim. "Yes, that's perfect. Oh, damn, you’ve shaved.” His fingers were upon my jaw, and so freshly shaved I felt his touch like a brand.

“Shouldn’t I have?” I asked. We were inches apart.

“Well, just like the jacket, it would have served to make you less conspicuous. Ah, well. The moustache will do very nicely, I suppose.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

Holmes swallowed visibly and stepped away again with a little shake of his head. “All right, what was I--? Yes. Here’s your coat. Off we go.”

The night air bit at my ears and nose, but the muffler Holmes wrapped around my neck and the cap upon my head kept me from freezing entirely. He had traded in his long black overcoat for a shorter, brown, wool topcoat, and his dashing top hat for a knit cap pulled down over his ears. He hunched and shuffled as he walked, and I knew I was in the presence of one of his characters. He had even smudged his face and hands with charcoal to dirty himself up a bit.

“I’m a fireman,” he said, when I’d asked.

“What am I?”

“You can be the engineer, if you like.”

“I don’t know enough about trains to be an engineer.”

“All right, then you’re my out-of-work brother.”

I snorted. “I’m your brother? I don’t look anything like your brother.”

He grinned. “That, you do not.”


	4. The Stoat and Barrel

The Stoat and Barrel was a dingy little pub twenty minutes walk from Montague Street, and its interior was even more dour than its exterior. Once it might have been a middle-class establishment, judging by the wallpaper and the gleaming bar, but the state of the ceiling and the stains on the floor suggested it had seen better days. The aura of sorrow lay over the place like a shroud, and I knew as soon as we walked in that, being strangers, we were not welcome.

Nevertheless, the landlord served us a pint of lager each, and we took a table in the corner, where both Holmes and I could survey the room. Holmes barely touched his drink, although he encouraged me to partake of mine.

"We're not spies," he assured me, "but we do need to be convincing."

"You're the actor," I said. "Not I."

"Watson, hush," he hissed. "Follow my lead." And he began to laugh loudly and bang on the table as if with extreme mirth. I laughed as well, at first uneasily, and then with a little more confidence, as Holmes gestured for me to keep it up.

Soon our presence had finally garnered enough curiosity, and a man stood up from another table where a group were clustered. He came over to us slowly, making us wait for his arrival and knowing the whole time that it was we who he meant to approach.

"You lads don't come 'round here much," he said, stopping finally at our table and crossing his arms over his broad chest. He was not as tall as Holmes, nor indeed as tall as I, but the girth of his arms and the gleam of his eyes above his bristly beard said everything they needed to. He had a square jaw and a wide, blunt nose, and a scar over one eye that cut his eyebrow in two.

"We were just lookin' for a quiet place to have a drink, is all," Holmes said, his voice wholly changed: now it was nasal, grating, and definitely lower class. "Didn't expect the place to be so damn sombre. Somebody die or something?"

"As a matter of fact," the burly man said, "someone did, so we'd appreciate it if you kept your loud mouths shut out of respect for the dead."

Holmes's face was a picture of consternation: mouth open in a perfect 'O', eyes wide. He had even managed to blush.

"My dear chap!" he cried. "I had no idea! How can I—? The next round is on me. I insist. My deepest apologies, o’course."

He was laying it on a bit thick, I thought, but the burly man seemed equal parts taken aback and charmed by his apparent dismay.

"Well, we won't turn that down," he said, "but apology accepted."

"Will Escott," Holmes said, holding a hand out to him, "and this is my friend—"

"John Watson," I said, before he could give me a pseudonym. 

The man shook hands with us both and introduced himself as Charlie Tipping. "Come on and join us," he said, gesturing toward the table full of somber men.

"I'll bring those drinks," Holmes said, and jerked his head at me to join him. When we had ordered a round, he leaned close and hissed, "You're not meant to give them your real name!"

"You wanted this to be as natural as possible," I whispered back, "and the least natural thing I can think of right now is a false name. I'll never answer to it, and I'll give up the game."

"If we get caught," Holmes said, "they'll be able to find you."

"How will _they_ know it's my—?" I began, but then a tray was set in front of us, full of pints, and Holmes shushed me again. "Well, then I suppose the only recourse is to not get caught," I whispered as we stepped away from the bar.

Holmes ignored me. "Gen'lemen," he said, sliding the tray onto the table, "my sincerest condolences for your loss. He must have been a great man, to inspire such devotion."

There was a general murmur of thanks and agreement, and Holmes dragged a chair up with the toe of his boot. He sat down in it.

"Sometimes," he said, "I find it helps to remember a man aloud, to compare stories and celebrate the life lived."

They were less enthusiastic about that idea.

"How would you know?" someone asked, while I heard someone else mutter, "Who does 'e think 'e is?"

"I lost my dear old man," Holmes said, sweeping off his hat and pressing it to his heart, "not three years ago. For weeks I was in the dumps, silent, wouldn't talk to no one. But then ol' Watson here," gesturing to me, "got me reminiscin' about him, and things started to clear up."

Another, more considering murmur.

"I'll leave you to your beers if you like," Holmes offered, "but a willing ear can never do you harm. Here, why not start with the basics: Where did he work?"

"The Lyceum Theatre," Tipping said. "An actor."

"An actor! I don't know many actors, what are they like?"

The lies came so easily to him, I marvelled at it. He was a natural. He had these strangers wrapped around his finger already, ready to tell him everything they knew. I pulled up a chair behind him and kept my mouth shut, trying to listen for places where he might need support.

He hardly needed anything. A few times I jumped in to vouch for something he said, but within half an hour Holmes had the late Orrick Sterling's bosom companions singing his praises and telling all his secrets. We learned that Sterling was admired for the amount he could drink before he became belligerent; that he always bought a round, to be sure that all of his mates had something to drink even if they couldn't afford one of their own; that he loved to sing, but didn't remember it until he'd had seven or eight pints in him; that he would carry a man home even if he could barely stand himself; that he was proud of his position as an actor and wouldn't take abuse about it from a stranger; that he came from humbler origins than I could have guessed from watching him on stage, as the son of a dockyard worker and a rag picker.

Holmes might have known some or perhaps even all of these things already, but he absorbed each and every fact that was released into the increasingly rowdy group. I couldn't tell which of them were useful, but I tucked them away myself to be called upon later when, if, Holmes needed me.

"And how he could brawl!" Tipping shouted, raising another pint for Sterling, and the group roared in appreciation. To Holmes, Tipping said, "We used bet on how long it would take him to turn a table over or throw a punch. He found out about it once and nearly tore the place apart."

"He sounds dangerous," Holmes said solemnly.

Tipping shrugged. "He didn't know his own strength sometimes."

"Did he get into fights often?"

The query was casual, but I could tell Holmes had picked up on the thread and was eager to follow it to its conclusion.

"Oh, not so much anymore," Tipping said. "Not since he started stepping out with that girl…"

"Had a girl, did he?" Holmes asked.

"Just some chorus girl from the theatre," Tipping said. "Little slip of a thing. Prettiest eyes I ever seen."

"Were they stepping out for long?"

"Couple of months, maybe. Wasn't serious. Maybe it was. You couldn't tell with Sterling. Things that mattered to him, he never let on."

"Must be hard for her," Holmes sighed. "Did she have any other admirers?" He gave Tipping a convivial little nudge. 

Tipping shook his head. "Oh, not me," he said. "My old lady, she'd have my head. Sweet woman, my old lady."

We laughed at that, but I could tell Tipping meant it. The tilt of his smile said he was fond of his wife.

Holmes pressed on. "So, no rivals for Mr Sterling, then."

"Well, not about his chorus girl."

"Other girls? Or another type of rival?"

Tipping was starting to frown, and I nudged Holmes's ankle with the toe of my boot. Too aggressive and we'd be caught out prying. He seemed to catch my meaning, and leaned back in his chair, looking nonchalant.

"What am I saying?" he said. "This Mr Sterling doesn't seem the kind of man to have an enemy in the world."

"Oh, he had a few," Tipping corrected, and Holmes caught my eye in triumph. "Lads from his younger days who thought he'd got above his station. Toffs he'd picked fights with. Chaps whose girls he'd charmed away. He was a handsome bugger; always had a way with the birds."

"Had he ever fought over a girl?" Holmes asked.

Tipping shook his head sharply, but it was more a refusal than a denial, it seemed to me. "Once or twice," he said gruffly.

"When?" Holmes pressed, and I got the sudden cold feeling that he had gone too far. Tipping looked up, narrowing his eyes at Holmes.

"What's it to you?" he demanded.

"I'm only—" Holmes began, putting up his hands in an attempt to placate, but at that moment we were rudely interrupted by another of Sterling's friends— the names had all escaped me— blundering up to the table and pointing a finger at Holmes.

"I knew I recognised you!" he said, loud and drunk, "You're one of them actors, in Orrick's troupe!"

"No," Holmes said quickly, "I think you're mistaken. We ain't never been—"

"I don't know who he is," pointing at me, "but you're definitely— you're that Holmes fellow, ain't you. You're the bloody prince!"

"We've overstayed our welcome," Holmes said to me, and I didn't need to be told twice. I was out of my chair and headed for the door in an instant. "You're definitely mistaken," Holmes called over his shoulder as we pushed through the door, and we made our escape.

Or, we might have done, if a hand hadn't reached out and caught me by the collar as I turned in the doorway. I wrenched myself free, but we were followed out into the street by four of Orrick Sterling's least convivial friends. Holmes turned to face them, pushing me behind him, and raised his hands in surrender.

"Now, listen," he said loudly, "we don't mean any harm." His rough-hewn accent had vanished, and he sounded like his polished self again. The four men were momentarily taken aback by this change, but it didn't stall their approach toward us, pushing us into the middle of the street.

"Who the hell do you think you are, asking all them questions?" the first man demanded.

"Pryin' into poor Orrick's affairs, he is," another announced.

"Putting his nose where it doesn't belong," the third agreed.

"You already know him," the fourth man said, "so why did you need to pretend not to?"

"I want to know who killed him," Holmes admitted. "I need to know _about_ him to know who might have been after him."

"And you think it had something to do with us?" I'd lost track of which of our to-be assailants spoke.

"I think it very likely," Holmes said. "Something he did, something he said, someone he knew here is linked— somehow, I don't know how yet— to his death."

"You saying it was his fault?" the biggest man roared.

"No!" I cried, unable to keep silent anymore. "Someone wanted him dead, and we need to know why!"

"Well, we ain't going to tell you, are we, boys?"

We were in the middle of the street by now, surrounded on three sides by these drunk, angry, grieving men, and I looked around for something to use as a weapon.

"No, we ain't," the others agreed.

"We'll just go," Holmes said, raising his hands into the air, as if that could placate them. It was too late; I could see the fight in their eyes.

"Not before we teach you a lesson about snoopin' into other people's business," the first man announced, and then the circle closed around us.

Holmes held his own fairly well, for a man clearly not used to street brawling. He had been trained in stage fencing he'd bragged to me the night we met, but I had been trained in hand-to-hand combat in the army, despite my role as a surgeon— or perhaps because of it. I knew how to block the fists that aimed for my ribs and my face, how to take a man's weight off his feet and pin him face-down to the cobblestones, how to absorb a kick and turn it to my advantage. I heard Holmes cry out once and almost turned to him, but the grunt of pain that followed it was not his. I ducked and weaved and hit back, my blood up, my heart pounding. I backed up into Holmes and he gave me a nudge with his elbow that let me know he was all right. 

But we were outnumbered, there was no getting around that. Four on two was long odds, despite how fit I felt and how drunk our opponents seemed to be. No sooner had I thrown a man to the ground than I watched as Holmes took an elbow square in the eye socket and went down. I leapt upon the back of the man who stood over him and sent the chap sprawling into the gutter, but the moment I clasped Holmes's hand to pull him up again, the third fellow had a hand on my back and a knee driven into my ribs.

My breath left me all at once, and I staggered and fell, choking on nothing. I couldn't inhale; the ground rushed up to meet me and was only just stopped by my outstretched hands. I saw blackness around the edges of my vision, and I knew it was over.

Then there was a great crash and a thud, and the shrill whistle of a constable on the beat pierced through my fog, and I felt Holmes's hands upon my arms, lifting me from the ground. 

"Come on," he urged, "come on, quick! We have to run!"

We ran, first stumbling away and then sprinting as the constable shouted for us to stop. Sterling's boys started to come after us, but they were waylaid by another constable who'd come running at the sound of the whistle. We dashed past him, but they ran straight into his billy club. Holmes whooped and grabbed my hand, and together we tore away into the night.

Four streets later, my head was throbbing and my chest felt so tight I could barely draw breath. Holmes slowed his pace for me and flashed me a grin in the dark.

"Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked.

"We were nearly killed," I said.

"Don't be absurd," Holmes laughed. "We had them against the wall! A few more minutes, and we'd have been explaining a couple of unconscious drunks to those spry young policemen."

"I think you're overstating things a bit," said I. "Here now, where are we going? We're on Baker Street; this isn't the way back to your—"

"Well," Holmes interrupted, "it is, a bit."

"It is the way back?"

"It is the way to my flat."

"You've lost me," I said.

"The place on Montague Street is a— a bolt-hole, if you like. I only use it when— listen, I'll explain everything in a minute." He pulled out a small ring of keys from his pocket, sorted through them, and stepped up to the front stair of number 221. The door was painted black, glossy in the light from the nearest streetlamp, with a half-circle transom above. One of Holmes's keys slipped neatly into the lock, and then he was ushering me into the hall.

"Holmes," I hissed.

"Upstairs," he said, "there's a good fellow. Mrs Hudson doesn't mind me coming and going— I'll just leave her a note."

I opened my mouth to demand an explanation and then shut it again in resignation. I wasn't going to get anything out of him until we were settled, and we weren't going to be settled until I'd taken a look at his face. That black eye wasn't going to treat itself, and he wasn't invincible.

Holmes scribbled something on a slip of paper and left it on a side table in the hall, and then shooed me upstairs. It was pitch dark up there, but Holmes moved past me and opened a door without fumbling for it, and then I heard the snap of a match and he was lighting a lamp just inside the doorway.

"In you come," he murmured, and shut the door behind me.

We stood in a comfortably decorated sitting room, decidedly bachelor in appearance, with two bay windows that faced out onto Baker Street. There was a fireplace on the left wall and a breakfast table on the right, and a settee flanked by two armchairs between. There was a luxurious bearskin rug on the floor in front of the hearth, and in the corner beyond the fireplace, opposite the windows, sat a large, oak, roll-top desk cluttered with papers and glassware. I took note of a bookcase, crammed to the gills with books both large and small, and a closed door between it and the desk. By the window, there was a healthy aspidistra in a porcelain pot.

"What are we doing here?" I demanded.

Holmes slid past me and went to light another lamp. Now I could see the mirror above the fireplace and the collection of odds and ends on the mantle: a Persian slipper, a knife stuck upright in the wood, a small pendulum clock, a porcelain statue of a horse.

He turned to face me once more, shucking off his ratty old jacket and said, "These are my rooms."

I shook my head. "Holmes."

"It's a long story."

"Well, then fetch me some cold water and sit down, and tell it to me while I see to your face and the cuts on your knuckles."

He beamed at me and went to do my bidding. His eye wasn't swelling badly yet, which suggested he might have gotten away without too much of an injury after all.

I took off the cloth cap and the jacket he'd given me, and then eased off my boots and left them by the door. In my socks and shirtsleeves, I sat on the settee to wait. Holmes returned a few minutes later with a basin full of water and a few towels, which he set at my feet.

I wet one of the towels and took his left hand. "Now," I said, dabbing at his split knuckles, "explain yourself."

"No one at the theatre knows about this place," he said. "I've never invited anyone to the hole in the wall on Montague Street, but I keep it in case anyone enquires. All of my costumes are there, anyway; it's a fine place to keep them."

I almost asked why, but decided it was better to let him come around to his explanation in his own time.

Holmes sighed. "My brother is responsible for keeping this flat intact. I told him I didn't need it, but I think my profession appalls him and he likes to pretend I haven't got a profession at all. He thinks I'm wasting my talent on the theatre."

"I think you're using your talent exactly where it ought to be used," I said. I was cleaning each of his knuckles carefully, wiping away grit from the street and the blood that had clotted in his scrapes, until the skin was pink and tender and the cuts showed fresh.

He smiled sadly at me. "There are other things I could do with it, I suppose," he said, "but I love being on stage." He shook himself and offered me his other hand. "At any rate, the company's not meant to know where I really come from."

I smirked up at him. "Are you saying you're secretly a gentleman? Slumming it with the actors because you like to be there?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying," Holmes snapped. "My family are country squires; my brother doesn't think I'm fit for the stage."

"Who is your brother?"

Holmes sneered and his hand twitched in mine. "He holds a minor position in the British government," he said. "He seems to think I should be using my skills to follow in his footsteps. As if I'd want to sit behind a stuffy desk all day or spend my evenings at his horrible club."

I dipped the towel into the water again and said, "How's your vision?"

"Fine," Holmes said, but he winced when I touched the towel to his face.

"No auras or blurriness? No double vision?"

"None."

"Pain level?"

"It hurts now that you're pressing on it," he said, "but otherwise it's all right."

"We'd better put some ice on it," I said. "Can you get any? Or just a cold compress would do in a pinch. You may have some bruising tomorrow. Why can't the company know about this place?"

Holmes sighed and took the towel from me to hold it gingerly against his face. "They think I'm an orphan," he said, one clear eye fixed upon me. "They think I haven't got anyone or anything, that I'm just a Drury Lane prodigy rising up the ranks. If they knew who my brother was, they'd never treat me the same."

"Do you suppose one of them will follow you home and find out?"

"No," he said, "but I don't particularly like this place anyway. It has Mycroft written all over it. Anyway, it's too big. I can't stand how much space there is for just me. At least in Montague Street, there isn't any spare room."

"You should get someone to share digs," I suggested. I leaned back and he lowered the towel, looking thoughtful. I pushed a damp lock of hair away from his fine, high forehead. He smiled at me.

"Maybe I should," he said, and he leaned forward to kiss me.

I hurriedly set the bowl of water on the floor and welcomed him into my arms. He unfolded his legs and shifted so that I was reclining against the arm of the settee and he was lying between my thighs, his belly pressed against my groin. I kissed him deeply, cradling his head carefully in my hands, and his fingers crept between my back and the settee. He began to tug my shirt out of my trousers, and I squirmed to make it easier on him. My ribs still throbbed, but I ignored the pain, determined to focus on the lithe, clever man in my lap.

Holmes kissed me slowly, slipping his hands beneath my shirt and vest to touch skin. I returned the favour, loosening his shirt and dragging my palms up his narrow sides. He tasted faintly of the beer he'd sipped, and of blood, and I licked deeper into his mouth, chasing the flavour that lay underneath. I felt him smile and he drew back to allow me to pursue him, catching my tongue in his mouth and giving it a gentle suck. When I moaned, he advanced once more, tilting his head to tip mine, taking over the kiss again.

I expected him to try and undress me further, to hurry us along to nakedness and wanton behaviour, but for a long while he seemed very content to just carry on kissing me. I ran my fingers through his damp hair, caressed his neck and shoulders, gripped his arms and sides, and his kisses never ceased. At times they gentled, or slowed, or deepened, and I felt him hard as iron between my thighs, but it was as if that were an afterthought. My moustache brushed against his upper lip, his cheek, and twice I caught him nuzzling into the sensation. My heart was pounding and my cock was rigid in my drawers. I felt hot all over. I found myself shifting, squirming, trying to get a little stimulation, and he pushed himself up on his hands in order to drag his groin against mine.

That finally forced us to break the kiss, as I shuddered and moaned aloud, pleasure sparking along my nerves. The sensation felt foreign, so long had I gone without, but the familiarity of my own arousal, the relief of feeling this way again, brought a lump into my throat. I kissed Holmes again to hide my increasingly emotional state.

Holmes braced his knees against my thighs and moved again, slowly, rolling his hips in a leisurely circle that made me pant and clutch at his arms. My head dropped back against the arm of the settee, and Holmes lowered his to bite gently at the tendons in my throat. He kissed his way up under my ear as he rocked against me, rubbing his prick on mine, and then up along my jaw to plant another kiss on my half-open mouth.

"There's something you don't want me to see," he said softly, going still.

I nodded, ashamed. I didn't want to be bare in front of him, not yet. I'd shied away the night before in his dressing room— god, had it only been one night?— and for good reason. I couldn’t stand the sight of myself; why ever would he?

"Watson, my dear fellow," he said, "I will not force a confession from you, but I imagine I know a little more about it than you believe I do."

I swallowed hard and met his eyes. He was smiling, not a pitying smile, but one of understanding.

"When you're ready to let me see it— them— so be it. Until then, let me… just let me…"

"Yes," I said, as he sought a poetic way to proposition me. "I'll stop you if it…"

"Good," he said, thrusting once, hard, against me and grinning at my noise of surprise. "I've been thinking about this since you agreed to have a drink with me."

"About—?" I started to ask, but he kissed me again, whispering, "Shh," against my lips, and sat back on his heels. He stroked his hands up and down my thighs, framing my obvious erection with his fingertips and glancing at me coyly from beneath his eyelashes. Then his fingers found the fastenings of my flies, and I slipped my hands underneath his to untie my drawers as well.

"God, that's lovely," he murmured, drawing my prick out of the open placket. In his long, slim, pale hand it looked huge and ruddy, and I felt myself blushing at the sight of it. It was leaking, the exposed head already wet with my desire, and Holmes brushed his thumb across and touched it to his lips. I heard myself moan.

"This," he said, and bent his head. I felt his warm exhale on my skin as warning, and then his tongue licking, so tenderly, at the tip of my prick. His lips closed around me, his hand splaying on my hip, and I groaned as he sucked me gently into the heat of his mouth.

My hands found the curve of his skull, gently carding through his hair, and I felt more than I heard his moan of approval. I let my head fall back against the arm of the settee and gasped at the ceiling, while Holmes's clever, wicked mouth took me deeper at intervals until I was nudging against the back of his throat.

He pulled off to breathe and swallow, and I pulled him up by the point of his chin to kiss his mouth. He groaned aloud, plunging his tongue between my lips, and I licked the taste of myself from him. When I let him go, he bit his lip and smirked, and then bent once more to his task.

By Jove, it had been _forever_. The arousal which had been interrupted last night was surging back, making itself known, and I suddenly feared, as Holmes's hands began to wander to cup my bollocks through my trousers and to slide up my chest, that I wouldn't last.

"Holmes," I gasped, flushing with heat and embarrassment, "Holmes, wait, I'm—"

Holmes lifted his head slowly, deliberately, dragging his lips up the column of my cock. I shuddered and squeezed my eyes shut, only to crack them open again when he released me. His eyes were hooded, his gaze intent.

"Give me a moment," I whispered. "It's too— it's too much."

He smiled a slow, wicked smile, and I felt my gut clench with the surge of arousal. I let out a shaky breath.

"My dear boy," he said, with the barest hint of a rasp that made me squeeze his fingers on my thigh, "I must admit something to you. Having you like this, on my settee, at my mercy, was not the end of my fantasy."

I said, "Oh, yes?"

"Yes. I, er, I hope you don't take this the wrong way, but I'd enjoy it very much if you took a— a more active role in this situation…"

"You want me to—" I gave a little thrust with my hips, indicating what I understood his meaning to be, and blushed as my prick bumped gently against his lower lip.

"Exactly that," Holmes said, grinning at me. He looked positively obscene there, between my thighs, his handsome face only inches from my rigid erection. Worse yet, there was a shadow forming around his left eye that made him look dangerous and frightening and incredibly alluring. "Furthermore," he said, "Please don't— stay yourself, for my sake. I want to feel you come apart."

My cock flexed hard at his words, his implications, and he squeezed its base and fit his mouth around the head once more. He glanced up at me and winked, and then he was taking me deep, drawing a groan out of me. I relaxed, letting the slow, warm tide of my desire build again. Holmes gripped my hip as a reminder, and I began to rock, spreading my thighs for him, digging my heel into the cushions and pushing up into his mouth. He bobbed his head, meeting my rhythm, and I shivered and thrust harder.

Holmes's hand left my hip to slide up beneath my shirt and vest, finding its way unerringly to the  tightened peak of my right nipple. He pinched it sharply and I gasped, my hips jerking. Holmes's moan was muffled. My prick was huge in his mouth, stretching his lips, wet with his saliva. God, I needed to come. It was going to be a lot— self-abuse hadn't been a priority lately, and I couldn't even remember the last time I’d tried it. Suddenly I was embarrassed again, afraid of what Holmes would think of me, but he was absorbed in the pleasure he was giving me, wrapped up in the rhythm of my hips and the tension in my muscles. He had to know how close I was.

He switched his attention to my other nipple and rubbed and pinched that to a peak as well, and it felt as though there were a current that connected it right to my cock. I groaned in desperation, trying to warn him, and he pinched harder. My hands wandered, stroking over his head, behind his ears, across his shoulders to squeeze at the back of his neck. He groaned, murmured, gripped me tighter.

I could feel it building, inevitable now, the tight, thick feeling of my orgasm coiling low in my pelvis. I said, "Holmes," and felt him nod quickly, his fingers wrapped around my cock tightening, twisting, pulling me faster into the heat of his mouth. 

With his permission granted, I dropped my head back again and let the crisis come, rising fast and hard and coalescing, my prick stiffening impossibly, my hips lifting off the settee. And then it hit me, and I cried out in relief and elation. Holmes held me tight, grounding me as I shook, and he was still holding me as I came down again.

I felt him swallow, and when he pulled away I lifted my head to gaze at him. His lips were swollen and his eyes were glassy; I realised the hand on my chest had disappeared, and it was now shoved between his hips and the settee.

"Wait," I gasped, pushing at his shoulder, "let me— let me— _please_."

"Yes, God, yes," he said, sitting up, and together we stripped him of his trousers, drawers, and socks, and then he was naked from the waist down, sprawled against the opposite arm. His prick was long and slim, like the rest of him, almost touching his navel, and surrounded by a thatch of glossy black curls. I bent eagerly, pressing my nose into them and breathing deeply, and above me Holmes swore aloud. Then I licked up the column of his cock and took him in all at once.

"Watson!" Holmes cried, his hands flying to my head, hips grinding up against my face. "Oh, goodness, yes!" Then, "Your fingers, put them—"

I had to release his prick to slide two fingers in my mouth, but that was only for a moment before I was sucking him down again and rubbing the wet pad of my middle finger against his fundament. He sobbed and spread his legs wide, writhing against the pressure. Then it slipped in and was squeezed powerfully by his internal muscles, and I felt the unmistakable thickening of his cock as he reached his peak with a shout. His emission filled my mouth and I held my breath as he pulsed, his groans almost too loud in the quiet house.

When he relaxed again I eased my finger out and wiped it and my mouth on my handkerchief. Holmes lay sprawled on the settee, one arm over his eyes, his chest heaving. Twice he licked his lips and took a breath as if he were going to speak, but both times he sighed deeply instead and was silent. After a few minutes, he seemed to recover himself enough to drag his arm away and sit up.

"You," he said, "are full of surprises, Doctor."

I grinned at him, strangely pleased.

"Kiss me again," he said, taking hold of my shirt front and pulling me toward him. Now our positions were the reverse of what they had been, with me between his thighs, bracing myself on my elbows on the arm of the settee. My shoulder began to ache almost at once, but I ignored the pain in favour of the sweet, slick sensation of his tongue in my mouth again.

He was warm all over: his bare stomach against my chest, his arms around my shoulders, his heel where it was hooked over my calf. I could feel his heart beat slowing as we recovered, and the rise and fall of his belly as he breathed. His breath was gentle against my cheek, and his hands were tender as they caressed my neck and shoulders, my scalp and face.

"Stay tonight," he whispered, between kisses. "Please?"

"Won't your housekeeper object?" I asked, nuzzling against his nose, my eyes closed. I was in too deep, I thought, even as I marvelled at the way my palms fit perfectly in the space between his ribs and the crests of his hips.

Holmes laughed softly. "She knows me too well," he said. "Come on, I have a nightshirt you can wear."

The bedroom behind the closed door was small, neater than the sitting room, and well-kept although it was clear that it was not often occupied. Holmes stripped out of his shirt and slipped on a mouse-brown dressing gown before he rifled through the wardrobe to find the nightshirt he'd promised me. Then, pressing it into my hands, he said, "I'm just going to have a quick wash, I'll be back in a minute or so," and disappeared into the hall.

I undressed carefully, the ache in my ribs making itself known. I examined myself naked in the standing mirror, trying to ignore the craters the Jezail bullets had made in my extremities, focusing instead on where the brute's knee had got me. Nothing felt broken, only bruised, so I tugged on the nightshirt and sat down on the edge of the bed to wait.

Holmes returned as promised only a minute or two later, and shamelessly discarded the dressing gown for another nightshirt. I admired the long, lean line of him from his shoulders to his heels, the flex of muscles beneath his alabaster skin.

"How are you?" he asked, sitting down beside me.

"A little broader in the shoulders than you are," I said, plucking at the nightshirt's ties, "but it will do very nicely."

"I meant your ribs," Holmes said, smiling.

I blushed. "I'll live."

"How do you like to sleep?"

I hesitated. The excitement of the fight— among other things— might keep me up all night, or it might bring about the nightmares. I hadn't any idea.

"You'd better be on the outside," he said, crawling past me and pulling the quilts back. I lay down at his urging, on my uninjured side, and he cuddled up behind me and laid the quilts over us both. His feet were chilly tucked up against mine, but the bed warmed quickly with both of us in it.

How strange, I thought, that only two days ago I'd been wandering the streets of London, certain that there was not another soul in the world that I could tether mine to, friend or relation or lover. And yet here I was in this beautiful, brave, utterly mad actor's bed, in his secret, upper-crust flat, with his gentle hand on my belly and his breath soft and even against the back of my neck, feeling like there was nowhere else in the world I belonged.

I slept.


	5. The Show Must Go On

Morning found Holmes and myself with our positions reversed; I remembered at some point in the night turning over and manoeuvring a sleepy, mumbling Holmes into my arms, and now we were curled close with me behind him, my newly awakened (and therefore very eager) prick pressed into the curve of his arse.

At first, forgetting myself, I cuddled closer to him and rubbed myself lazily against his back, when the night before came rushing back to me. Managing not to jerk away in surprise, I stilled my hips and eased my arm out from under his.

He groaned and caught me, pulling me back in and pushing his hips against my groin. Still apparently half-asleep, he guided my hand to the plane of his right pectoral and pressed, ensuring I would stay put, and then reached back again and grabbed for my hip.

"Holmes," I whispered, and he mumbled a response. His hand slipped down to the edge of the nightshirt I was wearing and tugged it upwards, until I had to help him or have the fabric snagged on my erection. Naturally, I chose to help. When his hand closed around me, warm and dry and snug, I breathed out hard into the back of his shoulder, and a pleased little laugh rumbled through him.

"That's it," he murmured, stroking me slowly, testing my reaction. When I shuddered and pressed myself closer to him, effectively trapping his hand between us, he let me go and moved instead to pull his own nightshirt off over his head. He wadded it up in the corner of the bed, and now I had a perfect view of his long, smooth side, the small of his back, the curve of his arse just disappearing beneath the quilts. 

He peeked over his shoulder at me, his smile soft and his eyes hooded, his hair falling over his forehead. The bruise forming around his left eye was less dramatic than I’d expected, which I was grateful for, but he winced when I touched the edge of it with gentle fingers.

"Apologies," I whispered, pushing myself up onto my elbow.

"Not at all," he replied, and half-twisted to kiss me softly on the mouth, and then, after a moment, more deeply. My cock gave a little jump against his buttocks, and I felt him smile. Then he shifted again, bending his left knee and parting his thighs, and I slipped easily between them.

"Oh," I said, as he trapped me. He smirked and lay his head back upon the pillow, guiding my hand again to wrap around the column of his prick.

He was warm and stiff in my hand, and with a little manipulation he began to leak and slick my fingers. I rubbed them over the head of his prick, pulling his foreskin back and teasing him, and his squirming stimulated my cock in the tight space between his thighs. I lay down again and tucked my hand underneath his ribs, my mouth once more at the level of his first thoracic vertebra. I nibbled his neck as I frigged him. His breath had turned to shallow panting, and he reached back to grasp at my hip, encouraging me to thrust.

I obliged. He squeezed his thighs tighter and I shuddered, working my hips in short, sharp motions. The channel between his thighs was wet with my own excitement, and soon I slid easily. Holmes was squirming, legs locked together, and I could tell he wanted to spread them and thrust on his own into my grip. I worked him faster, riding the arch of his body, and then he was gasping my name and spurting over my fingers. I followed him shortly after, spilling between his thighs, and we lay panting, over-warm, still gripping one another firmly.

"There's a basin by the window," Holmes sighed after a minute or two. "If you wouldn't mind."

I got up and rearranged my borrowed nightshirt before fetching a damp cloth from the basin of water. Holmes took it and wiped his thighs and my hand clean, and then beckoned me back into the bed. He reached over me as I got settled, and a moment later he was touching a flaring match to the tip of a cigarette.

"Why S. Scott?" I asked, my eyes fixed upon his mouth.

Holmes took a deep drag on the cigarette and sighed the cloud of smoke out again. "Why indeed?"

"Why use a pseudonym? Is it because of this place?"

He chuckled and offered me the cigarette. Feeling bold, given what had just occurred, I accepted it.

"It's a concession," he said. "My mother was so horrified that I went on the stage that she demanded I not use the family name. It was too late for that, of course, but my brother convinced me, at the very least, not to use my first name, as if that would spare her the shocking embarrassment of a son of hers in a profession like this. Everyone would talk, I am to understand." His mouth twisted in a bitter little smile.

"They've never seen you act," I said.

"My brother has," Holmes said, shrugging one bare, beautiful shoulder. I wanted to bite it. He took the cigarette back and sucked on it again. "He said it was an experience he never wished to repeat."

I changed the subject. "How is your face?"

He scrunched his eyes and mouth up in a parody of a smile. "Sore," he said, relaxing. "Your ribs?"

"Fine," I lied, touching the places where bruises would form. "We're lucky."

"There's something they didn't tell us," Holmes said thoughtfully. Another cloud of smoke surrounded us and then dissipated.

"There's quite a lot they didn't tell us."

"Yes, but there was something in particular they didn't want us to know. Something that Sterling did. I could see it in their faces: something happened, something _bad_ , that they each, individually, all at once, believed might have caused the murder. Perhaps it was over a woman; you heard what Tipping said about the girls, how he always seemed to have a new one. Perhaps there was someone before Lily whom Sterling wronged somehow. Someone with family who wanted revenge."

"It's possible," I admitted.

"I don't have enough information," Holmes muttered. "Damn, damn, _damn_. I wish we'd been able to question them longer."

"Any longer and we'd be pulp in the street," I said. I stroked my hand down his bare back and reached up to kiss his collarbone. He offered me the cigarette again, and when I shook my head he took one last drag and flicked it neatly into the grate.

"We might have to go to the police," he said, snuggling down against me and putting his head on my shoulder. "See if he was ever involved in anything that made it to them. See if he's got a record."

"You don't think they'll object to us getting involved?"

Holmes chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure they will," he said.

There was a knock on the door that made me jump, but Holmes only turned his head towards it.

"Yes?" he called.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," a woman's voice said on the other side, "I got your note. You must have been back very late, sir."

Holmes winked at me, and replied, "It was rather late, I'm afraid. I hope we didn't disturb you."

"Not a bit of it," she said. "Would you and your guest be requiring breakfast this morning?"

He laughed at my look of wide-eyed surprise, and said, still grinning, "Please, if you don't mind."

"Very good, sir," the landlady said. "It'll be about ten minutes, then." I heard her step away from the door and depart from the sitting room, and then I was pinching Holmes hard on the arm in indignation.

"Oh, please!" Holmes cried, laughing, pushing my hands away, "I told you she knew me too well!"

"Do you bring a lot of 'guests' home to this flat?" I demanded, rolling over to pin him to the bed. It occurred to me that I had no reason whatsoever to be asking such questions, but Holmes looked delighted rather than offended at my possessiveness, and he wrapped his legs around my thighs and his arms around my shoulders.

"Never," he said.

"What, never?"

"Well, hardly ever."

I kissed him, and he accepted me warmly. We lingered for a few minutes, distracted, and then Holmes said, "We have to get up, my boy; Mrs Hudson will never serve us breakfast if I'm in the all-together."

I climbed off and started to pick up my discarded clothes from the night before, trying to ignore the flash of pleasure the endearment had given me. I pulled my drawers and trousers on under the nightshirt, glanced over my shoulder to find Holmes standing nude at the armoire with his back to me, and discarded the nightshirt for my own shirt. I had buttoned it up to the collar when I heard Holmes's step behind me, and then he slipped his arms around my middle and rested his chin upon my shoulder.

"Tea or coffee?"

"Coffee," I replied, surprised by the soft press of his lips on my cheek.

He released me and opened the door to the landing. "Mrs Hudson!" he shouted, "Coffee for two, if you please!"

We were both suitably dressed by the time the landlady came up with breakfast and a pot of coffee. Holmes had wrapped himself in the brown dressing gown, and I made do in my shirtsleeves. Mrs Hudson was perhaps in her fifties, with her smooth, greying hair in a tidy bun and a slight smile on her round, friendly face. She didn't bat an eye at the sight of me, but she did look amused when I stood up as she came in, and Holmes, almost reclining in his armchair, said, "Mrs Hudson, Doctor John Watson; Watson, my most faithful, splendid, and long-suffering landlady, Mrs Martha Hudson."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," I said somewhat stiffly, and she threw Holmes a sly, sidelong glance.

"Yours as well," she said, "As I'm sure it was for Mr Holmes." 

I felt the blood rush to my face.

Holmes snorted with laughter. "Mrs Hudson! Really. You're embarrassing the poor fellow."

"Forgive me, Doctor," she said, without too much regret and still smiling. "If you gentlemen need anything at all…"

"Shout," Holmes offered.

"I'd prefer it if you touched the bell," she said as she went out, "but you never do," and closed the door behind her.

"By Jove," I muttered, sitting down again, still blushing furiously. To cover my embarrassment, I began to take the lids off of all the dishes on the tray as Holmes joined me at the table.

The array in front of us was more than I'd eaten for breakfast in a long time. In the army, even the medical corps was fed sparingly, and once I'd returned I'd budgeted carefully for coffee and toast most mornings. This was a veritable feast. There were poached eggs, rashers and sausages, toast with butter, griddled tomatoes and mushrooms, and potato hash. Holmes loaded up my plate, thereby making it impossible for me to pretend I wasn't particularly hungry, but only halfway filled his own. I ate with relish, while Holmes regaled me with stories from the stage and picked at his meal. His primary focus was his coffee cup, which he refilled twice. When I had cleaned my plate and begun on my second cup of coffee, I made a point to ask whether he was going to take advantage of the effort his landlady had so obviously put into the breakfast.

"I'm thinking," he protested. "Digesting takes up so much energy."

"Thinking about what? You do know food provides the energy your body uses, don't you? Even your brain?"

"About Sterling, of course," Holmes said, cradling his cup between his hands. "Finish your coffee, Doctor. Do you want to go home and change first? We've plenty to do today before my six o'clock call."

His rapid-fire introduction of topics confounded me. I didn't know where to start. At the end, I decided: "What's your six o'clock call?"

Holmes got up from the table and went into his bedroom. "At the theatre!" he called back. He was rifling through his wardrobe and he came out with a waistcoat and a jacket. "Before the eight o'clock curtain." He must have seen the look on my face when he turned around. "It's Monday. We have a show tonight."

"A man has just _died_ ," I protested.

"Yes, that's true enough," Holmes said. He came back into the sitting room, buttoning his jacket. It was of better quality than the suit I'd seen him in before, and tailored impeccably to his form: highlighting the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist, the length of his arms and legs. I looked away. I was supposed to be indignant. "But Ned Bingham will take his place, provided he's been released from custody. Otherwise Quincy Dudley will do it. The theatre can't stop giving performances, even for something like this."

"The show must go on," I intoned.

"Precisely. The Work comes first. So. Are you with me today?"

I hesitated. I wanted more than anything to stay at his side, to accompany him on whatever errands he had planned, whether they were related to the case or banal everyday necessities. But then I thought what that would look like: an army doctor home from war following an actor around like a little dog. It wasn't that I thought myself too good for Holmes, but rather that I was certain Holmes had better things to do than keep me entertained. I ought to go back to looking for employment. I ought to use my hotel room for which I had already paid.

Holmes seemed to sense my dilemma, for he said hopefully, "Perhaps, tonight, then?"

My hotel room, which was bland and spare and held all my worldly belongings. I remembered childhood, Scotland, sumptuous bedclothes, a raging fire, a pile of gifts under the tree at Christmas. Around me now, the comforts of home were not mine, and yet they called to me.

"Perhaps tonight," I agreed.

\---

"You should come home more often," Mrs Hudson said in the front hall, reaching up and patting Holmes on the cheek. He shied away, clearly embarrassed, but was grinning fondly. "I don't know what you see in that little hole in the wall, what with everything I do for you. I'm at your disposal, you know, Mr Holmes."

"I can't," Holmes sighed, clasping Mrs Hudson's wrists and holding them to his chest. "If someone found out, I'd never live it down."

She patted the front of his shirt and he let go. They gazed at one another, adopted mother and son, until Holmes shook himself and shrugged his greatcoat the rest of the way onto his shoulders.

"I'll be by again soon, Mrs Hudson," he said, "I promise."

"I'll hold you to it," she said. "Doctor, it was very good to meet you."

I blushed and stammered my way out the door after Holmes. He was laughing at me on the stoop.

"You are a fair hand with women, Watson," he teased, leading me down the street in the cold mid-morning light.

"I'll have you know," I returned, puffing out my chest, "that my experience of women stretches across three continents."

That only made Holmes laugh harder. "Three! What was the third? Wait, no, let me guess." He stopped us in the middle of the pavement and turned me to face him. He studied me for a minute, eyes narrowed, thinking hard, taking in my coat and my trousers and my boots, my face and hair and hat. I didn't know what he was looking for or what he might see— some of my costume I'd borrowed from _him_.

"Australia," he said finally, with the conviction of a man who reads minds.

"Good God, Holmes!" I exclaimed. "How on earth—?"

"It's the way you say certain words that suggests you spent formative years there. Formative enough to experience a woman— or, probably a girl, really." He nudged me.

"We were young," I admitted.

He took my arm, tucking his hand into the crook of my elbow, as we continued walking. At the corner, the mouth of the Underground station beckoned, warm and smelling of oily smoke. Holmes squeezed my bicep and said, "Tonight," as if I'd forgotten between the flat and now.

"Here?" I asked.

He nodded. "Eleven o'clock. I'll fetch your jacket from Montague Street."

"Very well," I said, my heart turning over in my chest. "Break a leg."

\---

I spent the day trying not to think of Holmes but more or less unable to do anything else. It was the mystery that consumed my mind as much as the man himself; what on earth had possessed him to walk into that pub with hardly any information, set on discovering every detail?

My ribs were bruised and aching, and as the day went on they got progressively worse. I lay in bed with an ice compress on my side, bemoaning my foolishness aloud to no one and quietly thrilled that I'd gotten in such trouble. It was worth it, I thought, to have been at Holmes's side.

What might have provoked someone to kill another in a theatre closet like that? Revenge was the only thing I could think of. Pure, unadulterated hatred, perhaps. But the location of the murder had to be significant. The dressing rooms had still been full of actors, but had that been the murderer's only opportunity? Holmes was convinced it was a member of the company, with unquestioned access to the backstage, and I was not inclined to disagree despite my horror at the notion. To work with someone for months, and then slip away to kill them: it was positively diabolical. 

So, I reasoned, if the murderer had to risk public exposure to carry out their plan, then they were not friendly with the murdered man. They couldn't follow him home, or visit him during the day, without arousing suspicion. Sterling was planning that night to walk with Miss Sellars; perhaps the murderer took the only chance presented, the one moment Sterling had been alone.

But why that very night? They must have known their sin would be discovered within minutes of its perpetration. Something must have incited the murderer to action. Seeing Miss Sellars in the hallway? I wondered if the murderer was particularly given to religious fervour, and had become enraged at the idea that Sterling and Miss Sellars had been engaged in a tryst. But if everyone in the company already knew…?

My rumination went on through supper, and I was eager to share my ideas with Holmes upon our reunion. Eleven o'clock approached with decreasing speed as I watched the clock, until finally, _finally_ , it was reasonable for me to depart. I know how absurd it was: spending the day in my hotel bed only to leave near midnight to sleep in someone else's.

There was a light in the first floor window that guided me down Baker Street, and the lightest tap on the door brought Holmes, rather than his housekeeper, hurrying down the stairs. I could hear him coming. He cracked open the door hopefully and widened it, beaming at me. 

His black eye was terrific. The plum and currant bruising surrounded his orbital and filled the soft hollow below his eye. He was lucky it wasn't swollen shut: at least I'd saved him that much.

"You didn't go on stage like that?" I demanded, as he pulled me inside.

"Oh, this?" Holmes asked, touching the edge of the bruise on his cheekbone. He closed the door behind me and, after the briefest pause to gauge my receptiveness, bent his head to kiss me on the mouth. "This is what make-up is for, my dear Watson."

We went upstairs, my hand securely clasped in his.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked, hanging up my coat and leading me to the settee in front of the fire. The fire was banked and giving off a pleasant warmth, and I basked in its heat as he rummaged in the sideboard for something to offer me. "Aha! I knew there was brandy in here." He waggled the bottle at me, eyebrow raised.

I accepted. 

Holmes came back and sat down beside me as he handed the glass over, and then leaned back against the cushions, closing his eyes.

"By Jove, what a night," he sighed, gingerly rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. "Word got out, I think. About Sterling. The theatre was packed, and Irving felt terribly guilty about not cancelling the show."

"He should have," I said heatedly. "Giving you a single night off after something that; it's inhuman."

Holmes cracked his unbruised eye open again and smiled tiredly at me. "We can't refuse to go on stage."

"You look exhausted."

"Well," he said, nudging me with his knee, "I know who to blame for _that_."

I blushed and took a sip of my drink. Holmes grinned.

"Your jacket is on the chair," he said, indicating.

So it was. I fingered the cuff and let it be. "What did they say about your eye?" I asked.

He looked a little guilty. "Lily Sellars was furious with me and wouldn't speak to me but to say her lines," he said. "She heard about the scuffle, of course."

"Didn't it hurt?"

"Terribly."

I finished my drink in silence, listening to the low crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of Holmes's breathing. He seemed to be falling asleep, but a few moments later he roused himself with a shake of his head and sat up again. His knee was warm against mine.

"Watson, forgive me," he murmured, blinking.

"Whatever for?"

"I am the very model of an ungracious host, inviting you here to watch me doze."

"It is not so objectionable an occupation," I said. I set the glass aside. "Someone ought to put you to bed."

Rising, I took Holmes by both hands and helped him to his feet. He leaned into me and allowed me to lead him to his bedroom. When we reached the bed, however, he hesitated.

"I fear I once again may disappoint you," said he. "Twice in such short succession, I ought to be ashamed of myself."

"Holmes," I admitted, understanding his meaning, "last night I felt very little pain in the heat of the brawl and— and everything, but tonight my ribs are absolute torture."

"Oh, my poor fellow," Holmes said, putting his palm very gently against my injured side. "Lie down with me, then, and we will not exert ourselves overmuch."

He changed for bed, and I undressed to my shirt and drawers. Gingerly I lay beside him, and he drew the quilts over us both. The lamp on the table was still lit, and in the soft, warm glow I admired Holmes's relaxed face, noting the flaws as well as the features: his striking, aquiline nose; his unblemished skin; his bruised eye-socket; a faint scar on the corner of his jaw; his fine, high cheekbones; his thin, expressive lips. He opened his eyes again to smirk at me, and I blushed to be caught so obviously entranced by him.

"Did you find out anything else about Sterling's reputation?" I asked.

Holmes allowed my admittedly clumsy deflection. "I did not," he admitted. "It was difficult to pry into the man's business with his passing so very recent and my companions still so freshly grieved."

"Do you not count yourself among their number?"

He shrugged and turned onto his back, so that we were side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. "I am a member of the company, certainly," he said. "They have been my family for five years."

"And yet you don't strike me as particularly bereaved."

"I never cared much one way or the other for Sterling," Holmes admitted. "That is no excuse, of course, and I don't rejoice in his death, but I find myself somewhat removed from the emotion of the loss by the excitement of the case. That makes me sound dreadful, doesn't it?"

I shrugged. Death affected everyone differently: I knew that much. "Did they let Bingham off, then, to play the part?"

Holmes sucked in a breath and sat up, turning to me in his excitement. "No!" he said. "They've kept him locked up! The evidence points to him and they are, of course, convinced by something so trivial."

"What evidence?"

"The knife." He was propped up on his elbow now, one hand resting on my chest over my heart. He must have been able to feel the way it pounded, and not because of the excitement of the murder we were discussing. "The clasp knife that killed Sterling. It was his."

"That does seem very telling."

"Oh, fie, Watson!" Holmes patted my sternum and then grimaced in apology when I winced in pain. "It could be stolen. It could have been lost! It is by no means conclusive evidence of his guilt."

He reached over me to turn out the light. In the darkness, I felt him settle himself against me once more, his cheek against my shoulder, his fingers toying with the buttons on my shirt. It was so very familiar an action, and it made my throat close up. Holmes did not seem to notice. I covered my hand with his to still him, but also to keep him in place.

"There is so much more I need to know," Holmes whispered, quieted now that it was dark. "I have to get to the bottom of this."

\---

The first sign of the nightmare was the feel of sand underneath my boots. But, of course, I was in no position to avoid the torments of my mind, and must only be swept along as the dream, half memory and half imagined horror, unfolded.

The sand under my boots shifted and slid, and I could feel the grains between my toes as they infiltrated the stitching. I was aware that I was surrounded by fellow soldiers and medics, but they were always just on the periphery of my vision. The moon above us was full and swollen in the sky, casting blue, insufficient light across the desert.

A slow, seeping sensation started up in the hollow of my shoulder, and I looked down to find blood darkening the front of my uniform. I knew at once that a corresponding stain was forming on the back, and that if I didn't see to it I would soon bleed to death. But I felt no pain yet; I knew, in a kind of dream logic, that the wound itself had not been made. Nevertheless, the blood leaked from me.

We were waiting. The hospital tents were all set up for the battle, far behind the front lines, the cavalry, even the artillery. We should have been safe. But I knew what was coming, and I couldn't do anything about it. Nor could I warn my comrades.

The rifle fire began, accompanied by the sound of the great guns. Ours would be turned upon us, and already I could hear the screams of the Ghazis. And of my own men.

Now the sun beat down upon us, night turned inexplicably to day, and the blood on my shirt was gone. I knew it would return. The wounded were incoming, at first carried back to us on stretchers, shot and cut and blown to bits, but then they were borne on the shoulders of their fellow soldiers, and soon they limped and dragged themselves in alone. The sand grew wet and red, sticking to my boots as I worked, sewing up this gash and extracting that bullet. I had more amputations than I could manage. The other medics were all gone. The boys under my hands were bleeding to death, and I couldn't stop them.

Then the bullet punched through my shoulder, and I knew the line had folded. I ran, my feet heavy with blood-soaked sand, my arm dead in my sleeve. I held it against my body, stumbling over corpses scarcely recognisable as soldiers, nay, as men, and the second bullet tore into my thigh.

I went down in the sand, blind with pain and terror, certain that death was upon me. No helping hand came down upon my back, no orderly hauled me to my feet once more. The Ghazis were coming.

 

"Watson!" Holmes was leaning over me, his palm pressed to my cheek. "John, wake up. John. You're dreaming, my boy. Wake up."

"I'm awake," I gasped, and the pain that had suffused my body localised into my side. "I'm—"

"Shh," Holmes said, "shh. You're all right."

I nodded, and without thinking lifted my hand to grasp at my wounded shoulder. It throbbed too, in time with my ribs. Holmes sat up and reached to light the lamp, but I said, "No."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," said I. "I'm fine."

"Forgive me, Watson," Holmes murmured, "but you sound anything but 'fine.'" Nevertheless, he lay down beside me once more. His hand still rested on my chest, grounding me. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

I shook my head.

"All right," Holmes said, and kissed my cheek, "that's all right. It's not my business. Was it Afghanistan?"

"Holmes," I growled.

He winced. "Sorry. You're not going to go straight back there, though, are you?"

"No."

"Will you be able to go back to sleep?"

"I don't know."

"Well, then I suppose you won't mind if I smoke," he said softly, and lit his cherry pipe. 

I watched the glow of the bowl wax and wane, listening to his gentle, crackling inhale and his slow, sighing exhale. I breathed in the comforting, now-familiar smell of his tobacco, and tucked my head into the crook of his shoulder. His hand smoothed back and forth across my shirt between my shoulder blades, but he said nothing more until the dawn slipped her rosy fingers in between the gaps in the curtains, and we arose from bed.


	6. Scotland Yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay and so grateful for your continued patience. I should be able to spend more time on this now, and I intend to finish it before the semester is over. <3

I accompanied Holmes to the theatre the next afternoon, where we were met at the stage door by the theatre company's director, Mr Henry Irving, and the rat-faced Inspector Lestrade who had interviewed us on Friday night.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes?" said the Inspector, knowing perfectly well whom he addressed.

"What can I do for you, Inspector?" Holmes asked.

"I'd like for you to come to the station with me, if you don't mind."

"In regards to what, may I ask?"

The Inspector looked Holmes up and down; apparently he had not expected the polite but obvious resistance from the actor. "In regards to the murder that took place on these premises just three days ago, Mr Holmes."

"Of course, Inspector," Holmes said cooly, "but what exactly is the nature of your request?"

"I need to ask you a few questions," Lestrade said, folding his hands behind his back. "Did you know there was a break-in here on Sunday? The lock to the stage door was picked."

Holmes's face was stone. "How unusual," said he.

"Your employer, Mr Irving, seems to believe you have some skill with burglar's tools."

"Is there substance to these allegations, Inspector, or are you simply listing facts?"

"Holmes," Irving put in, "go with the Inspector, for heaven's sake. You're not making yourself look any better by making a fuss."

"I disagree," Holmes said. "I had nothing to do with the murder of Orrick Sterling, and if the Inspector is going to make wild allegations I'd prefer it if they had a point."

Irving scowled at him. "If you get arrested for being smart, Holmes, the play is going to close."

Holmes's demeanour changed at once. He grasped Irving by both hands. "Don't close the play, Irving. Not even if I am arrested. Promise me, Irving!"

Irving reared back, but he didn't pull his hands from Holmes's grip. "What? Are you mad? Without Ned, who on earth would—"

"Anyone," Holmes said. "Anyone at all. Dobbs can play Hamlet for all I care, just keep the cast busy, keep them on stage. You have to keep giving performances until this is solved."

The Inspector and Irving stared at Holmes in baffled disbelief.

He made a noise of displeasure, throwing up his hands. "Don't you see? The killer is among the cast. Someone in there," and with this he jabbed an index finger at the stage door, "killed Sterling, and I'm—" He checked himself suddenly, realising he had perhaps been about to give us away as amateur sleuths. "I'm certain the Inspector will find them if only they can be made to believe they are not suspected." His face lit up with a sudden thought. "In fact," said he, turning to Lestrade, "you should arrest me. Do it now. Watson, you are a witness. Come with me as my defence. Irving, tell them I have been taken to Scotland Yard but do not say why. Let the rumour spread that I am in custody— yes, Inspector, that is a necessary step— and we will put our man at his ease."

Lestrade glanced at me, raised an eyebrow, and glanced at Irving. Irving grimaced, inspected his feet, and then looked up into Holmes's face. For a moment they were still as Holmes, without saying another word, convinced the director to let him enact his mad plan. Then Irving sighed, nodded, and said, "Ellen is going to have a fit."

"Ellen will think I'm a genius," Holmes said smugly. "How is she, by the way?"

"Recovering," Irving said, softening a little. "She's got some of her energy back."

Holmes nodded once, and said, "Good. Now, Inspector: take me in. Watson, come along."

Inspector Lestrade shrugged, unhooked his darbies from his belt, and took one of Holmes's proffered wrists. He fastened Holmes's hands together in front of him and led him to the cab that waited nearby. Holmes winked at me as he climbed in ahead of the Inspector, and I stepped up behind.

"Don't worry, Watson," he said to me, as we jolted into motion. "This is all going splendidly."

When we reached Scotland Yard, Holmes and I were ushered through the rear entrance and past the holding cells on the ground floor, up two flights of stairs, and down a hallway. Inspector Lestrade opened a door for us and unlocked Holmes's wrists as soon as we stepped inside. He closed the door again.

"Please sit, gentlemen," said he. "Doctor Watson, isn't it? I must commend you on your quick action on Saturday night, sir, though I am sorry it did not have a satisfactory result."

I shrugged and looked down at my hands, laced in my lap. My thigh ached from the cold and the climb up the staircase. I pressed the back of my hand against the wound.

"Now, Mr Holmes," the Inspector went on, "I am under the impression that your involvement in this matter is more than mere concern for our success. Am I wrong?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

"It was you who entered at the stage door on Sunday, was it not?"

I kept staring at my hands. Holmes raised and lowered one shoulder, and leaned back in his chair. "Do you mind if I smoke, Inspector?"

"I mind it very much," the Inspector said. "Mr Holmes, you are not truly under arrest here. You do remember that, don't you?"

"Of course."

"So I ask again, was it you who entered the Lyceum at the stage door on Sunday?"

"It was."

"You have access to that part of the theatre at all other times. You are, in fact, a principle actor in the company and therefore have the most right of anyone to be in that hallway. Yet you chose to enter during a time when the theatre was abandoned and no performance was planned. Can you tell me why, exactly?"

Holmes took a deep, thoughtful breath, glanced at me, and said, "I needed to look at the scene again."

"You are not an investigator, Mr Holmes," the Inspector reminded him. "You should have no interest whatsoever in the scene. We had our men there all night looking at the evidence."

"Yes, I could tell," Holmes muttered.

"All night," Lestrade repeated tightly, "and we have formed many of our own conclusions about the case. We do not, and I say this with the utmost respect, Mr Holmes, need an amateur assisting us."

"Did you bring me here to scold me, Inspector?" Holmes asked. "If you had already taken what you needed from the storage closet and had formed your conclusions, then what does it matter that I went to take another look?"

Lestrade laced his fingers on his desk and leaned forward on his elbows. "I have been on Metropolitan Police Service for ten years, Mr Holmes. Your impertinence does not impress me."

"So you have identified the killer," Holmes suggested.

There was an uncomfortable pause, and the Inspector said, "We have our suspicions."

"I have."

Lestrade smirked. "Then by all means, Mr Holmes, enlighten me."

"I don't know the motive yet, Inspector."

"You can leave that to us."

"I thought you didn't need an amateur assisting you," Holmes said. "You should be allowed to draw your own conclusions from the evidence in front of you, don't you agree?"

"Holmes," I murmured. He glanced at me, surprised by the interruption, but I raised an eyebrow at him and the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Inspector," said Holmes, propping his elbows on the armrests of the chair and touching his fingertips together in front of his mouth, "allow me to suggest an accord of sorts."

The Inspector put up a hand. "Mr Holmes, I will not agree to anything before you give me proof that you know who the killer is."

"The killer is a small man, under six feet, with dark hair. He wears round-toed boots that are at least a year old, and walks with his ankles turned slightly inward, putting extra pressure on the balls and interior edges of his feet. He planned this murder meticulously, joined the company to enact it, but at the last moment he panicked. Something went wrong."

"I'd say a great deal went wrong, Mr Holmes," the Inspector said.

"If you knew the company like I do, Inspector, you'd know who murdered Orrick Sterling."

"Well, Mr Holmes, what do you suggest, then?"

"I want access to your arrest records."

This was entirely unexpected. The Inspector shook his head at once. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. I cannot allow that."

"I must have it."

"And what do you propose to do with access to the Metropolitan Police arrest records? You already have your murderer in mind."

"I need a motive," Holmes explained, putting his palms on the Inspector's desk. "You could arrest the man right now— and let Ned Bingham go— but without knowing why he did it you won't have a case."

"He might confess."

"He won't confess."

"What, or who, will you be looking for in these records, Mr Holmes?"

"Orrick Sterling."

Flabbergasted was not a particularly good look for the Inspector. "What can Mr Sterling tell us now?"

"Oh, Inspector," Holmes chided. "The dead have many tales to tell, as it happens. I believe Sterling has a record: he was arrested but not charged, otherwise I'd have known about it. I make it my business to know what others do not, especially when it comes to my colleagues."

"Arrested for what?"

"Brawling, and manslaughter."

"Mr Holmes," the Inspector sighed, sitting back in his chair. "Your imagination is quite robust. I suppose that is the product of being an actor."

"You may pursue the avenue yourself if you wish, Inspector," Holmes said. He laced his fingers together. "But I predict it will not lead anywhere for you."

"Now see here—" the Inspector began, but I had seen my opening.

"What harm can it do, Inspector?" I asked. "All we want is a look in the archives."

"They're not available to the public, Doctor Watson."

"But it may assist in a murder investigation."

"We cannot be seen to have amateurs—"

"Call it a bit of research," I interrupted. I knew where I was going now, and what would make the Inspector relent. "Holmes doesn't want the credit, he just wants to see justice done. The official force will be the ones to make the arrest when we have all the pieces."

"And if you do not find what you are looking for?"

"Then there has been nothing lost, no time wasted by yourself or any of your men. Perhaps we satisfy a curiosity and nothing more. Or perhaps we catch a murderer before he kills again."

Holmes doubted that anyone else in the company was in immediate danger, but Inspector Lestrade didn't know that. He appeared to be considering my words carefully, frowning to himself. Finally he nodded, and Holmes's mouth twitched in a quickly stifled smile of triumph.

"Very well, Mr Holmes. Although it is against policy, not to mention my better judgement, my instinct is to give you access to all the records we have here."

"And at any other division I may need," Holmes said.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes. "For the duration of the investigation only."

"And it will be the Doctor who will require permission." Holmes stood up, hat in hand. " _I_ , I regret to say, am expected at the theatre. If we are to keep the murderer occupied until he can be apprehended, I must be on stage tonight." He gave a little half-bow and swept out of the room.

Lestrade and I stared after him, and then at one another.

"Just," I said, putting up one finger, "half a minute."

Holmes was waiting for me at the end of the hallway, and he began to laugh at the expression on my face.

"Holmes!" I scolded.

"It must be you, Doctor!" said he. "I spoke the truth: I must be at the Lyceum in time to prepare for tonight's performance. I must entrust the case to you, my dear fellow, and hope that you will find what I an expecting you to."

"But what are you expecting? Where do I even start?"

"The killer joined the company—"

"Who is it?"

Holmes hesitated. "I feel as though I cannot tell you yet," he said, "in case I am mistaken."

"But you do not believe you are mistaken."

He shook his head. "Nevertheless. The killer joined the company a little over a year ago. He has been plotting for a while. You must start your search at least five years ago."

"Five years!"

"Look for bar fights, disturbances, brawls, and, most importantly, a death."

"And if there is nothing to be found?"

"Then you will have my most sincere apologies for wasting for time. I will have to make it up to you." His eyes sparkled with the prospect.

"Very well," I said, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him. "I shall start at once."

"Good man," said he, and did not resist any such urge. He squeezed my shoulder warmly. "Go back and tell Inspector Lestrade what you need. If he refuses, alert me. I wish you the best of luck."

+++

The Inspector led me to the basement archive where he spoke in an undertone to the bored-looking attending constable. The young man disappeared, and Lestrade gave me a nod, still obviously skeptical, and told me that anything I might require was at my disposal. If I did not find what Holmes was looking for, I was welcome— and he used the word grudgingly— to come back in the morning and pick up where I had left off.

When he had gone, the constable returned with an armful of ledgers from 1876. I had still been in medical school in that year, and it seemed a very long time ago. The constable dropped the ledgers on a table and bade me sit. When I was finished with them, said he, I was to inquire for the next set. His shift was over at seven sharp, at which point I would be summarily ejected from the archive.

I sat. I felt very much as though I was back at school again, working under the gaze of the head librarian— though the attendant showed considerably less interest in how I handled the books. I started at the earliest one and began to read.

The arrest records read as a dispassionate list of every violation that might be perpetrated in the city. It gave the date, the name, the charge, and the fine paid or legal process enacted. It was a window into the underbelly of London, one I hoped never to become better acquainted with. I still had the matter of my insufficient pension to consider. I had let it slip out of my head the last few days, distracted by the novelty of Sherlock Holmes… but now was not the time to let its worries consume me again.

There was nothing to be found. I didn't even stop to eat dinner, so when I was thrown out at seven o'clock I was aching with hunger. Holmes had sent me no message in the meantime. I went back to my hotel, ate supper still thinking about the ledgers, and went to bed alone.

I was up early the next morning feeling refreshed, purposeful, intending to be at the archive as soon as possible. I might not have found anything yet, but Holmes had entrusted me with the task and I was going to carry it out to the best of my abilities. I even went to the barber's for a shave. I had to pass by my hotel again on my way from there to the archive, and was surprised to hear my name being called from somewhere above me.

Holmes was there, sticking his head out of a first floor window.

"Watson!" he called, one long arm emerging to wave at me. "Stay right there, old fellow!"

I did as I was bid, unable to keep from smiling. When he emerged from the front doors, Holmes beamed back at me.

"Good morning," said he.

"Good morning to you," I said, shaking his proffered hand and clasping it warmly between both of mine. "What was that about?"

"I thought I'd come find you since I missed you last night," he said, "but you were already gone out, it seems." He eyed my freshly shaven jaw, his smile becoming more sly and private, and I remembered his hand upon my cheek only a few nights ago.

I cleared my throat. "Yes, well, I'm afraid I've had no luck yet with the arrest records."

"That's all right," Holmes said. "Word of the Inspector taking me away in irons has made the rounds, as I'd hoped, and I think my man is at ease. The company, though, is at an absolute fever pitch, and I'm afraid Irving may cancel the show after all."

"That would let him escape, wouldn't it?"

"The only thing keeping him from leaving now is that disappearing would put the spotlight square on him. But if the show is cancelled and we all go our separate ways, he's free."

"I'll work as quickly as I can," I said.

"How do you feel about breakfast, first?"

"Always in favour."

Holmes took my arm with a smile and we walked together in the direction of Scotland Yard. The January cold had abated somewhat, and the wind, while brisk, was no longer biting upon our exposed skin. The sun shone brightly in a near-cloudless sky. Holmes's leather gloves were clasped warmly around my bicep, and I took occasion a few times as we walked to cover his hand with mine.

He led me to a little bakery on a side street between the Strand and Whitehall, ordered for both of us in smooth, flawless French, and drew me to a seat by the window. We were served hot, black coffee and warm, buttery pastries, and Holmes tucked his foot between mine beneath the table. The window captured the heat of the sun; by the time we were finished I had taken off all my outer layers and was basking in the pool of light.

I carried that warmth with me even after Holmes and I had parted ways and I was once again pouring over the old arrest records. I nursed it while the dust floating around me in the stuffy cellar and made my eyes itch. I recalled it upon the back of my neck, along with the sensation of Holmes's fingers on the back of my hand as he'd pointed out a passing stranger and listed off a string of unprovable facts about their life, while I ran my finger down the pages of notes, looking for something I didn't expect to find.

But find it I did.

Orrick Sterling's name appeared in the ledger from 1879, only two years ago. He'd been arrested for brawling, as Holmes had suspected, along with three others. There was a note in the righthand column about a grievously injured party, with an addendum in another pen that read, _Deceased as a result of injuries._ The charges against the four men had been dropped and the death ruled accidental. Intoxication of all parties was partly blamed.

"By Jove, Holmes," I whispered in astonishment, though the man was nowhere near to receive my praises. I copied down the whole entry, along with the names of the other people involved, and hurried up to find the constable on duty, my hat and coat in hand.

"Another ledger, Doctor?" he asked without looking up from the magazine he was reading.

"No, thank you," said I. "I'm finished here."

He raised his head. "Are you, indeed?"

"Can you pass on my thanks to Inspector Lestrade?" I asked, pulling on my coat. "Much obliged. Have a good afternoon."

When I emerged from the basement, I realised I wasn't sure whether Holmes would be accessible at this time of day. It was now late afternoon, and his preparations for the evening show would be well underway. Nevertheless, it was close by, so I started in the direction of the theatre despite my misgivings.

Luck was with me, although it was not the luck I expected. As I approached the Lyceum stage door, wary that Jim the doorman would very likely deny me entry despite, or perhaps because of, our previous encounters, I spied Billie Wilder coming out, settling a fashionable, if conspicuous, powder blue top hat onto her short hair.

"Doctor Watson!" she called, raising a hand in greeting to me.

"Wilder," I replied, remembering her preference just in time. "Good afternoon to you."

"And to you, sir. Are you going in to see Mr Holmes?"

"I had thought to," said I, "but I'm not sure if I'll be a distraction."

"Lydia's just thrown me out, actually," Wilder said. "I wouldn't bother until they're finished with the show. It's a madhouse in there anyway, since… everything."

"Of course," I said, a little disappointed. No doubt Holmes would be pleased to hear the news I had for him, but I didn't want him to be caught unawares. He might have plans for 'his man', whoever that was.

"Do you care for a cup of coffee?" Wilder asked.

I grinned. "I should like that very much."

+++

The coffee house she led me to was warm and dark after the cold sunshine of the street. Wilder and I took a table off to the side and hung our coats and hats upon the wall. Beneath her overcoat, Wilder's suit was the same pale blue as her hat, and it fit her perfectly, neither denying nor accentuating her feminine features. It was a man's suit made for a woman, and I had never seriously considered the notion before. Miss Tilley's suits, which I had never seen in person, always seemed a shade too large for her.

"I hope you don't mind my asking," I began as we sat down, and watched Wilder's spine stiffen a little in preparation for an invasive question.

"Yes?"

"Where do you get your tailoring done?"

Her low laugh was made of as much relief as pleasure. "In Jermyn Street," she said. "There's a little shop near Duke Street that doesn't take too much offence at my proportions."

"Isn't that quite…"

"Expensive?" She winked at me. "Not for the right suit."

We ordered coffee and I had my sandwich, and throughout the afternoon the conversation never faltered. I told Wilder about my medical training and my army career, leaving out the most gruesome details about my injuries and the shameful facts about my discharge. 

She, in return, related stories about her girlhood in London, growing up among crossing sweepers and post boys, disguising herself to get work. She'd been taken in as a boy in buttons for an estate agent with philanthropic leanings, then raised to the position of clerk, and by the time her gender had been discovered she had made herself so essential to his business that he kept her on. She kept dressing like a lad and he kept paying her wages, and when he'd died, childless and unmarried, he had left her the whole of his fortune.

"It wasn't much," Wilder shrugged, "but a few sound investments in the right places has kept me afloat. The banks don't tend to look too closely at me, so they don't condescend to ask if I know what I'm doing."

"How did you meet Miss Bainbridge?" I asked.

"She was one of my investments, as it happens," Wilder said with a smile. "She was a dancing girl in the East End, but she had the talent to be on the West End stage. You've seen her."

"I have indeed."

Wilder had propped her chin in her hand and was gazing over my shoulder with a kind of wistful look about her, her expression soft with fondness. "I became her patron," she said, "and I pulled a few strings in order to get her an introduction to Henry Irving's company. That was, oh goodness, five or six years ago. Then she started making her own way, and as soon as she felt like she was no longer a kept woman she was willing to consider…" Wilder refocused, fixing her eyes upon my face. "A shift in the nature of our relations."

I smiled, admittedly a little jealous. "You're a very lucky individual," I said.

Wilder grinned. "That I am."

The crowd in the coffee house had flowed and ebbed around us, and the proprietor was now glaring at us with a clear intent to evict us if we didn't move along shortly of our own volition. Wilder looked at her pocket watch in surprise.

"Good Heavens," she said, "they'll be nearly done at the theatre by now. I don't suppose you'd care to come up to ours for a nightcap? I'll send Lydia a note to bring Holmes along."

"That… sounds splendid, actually," I said. For a moment I considered what my brother would say if he knew I was keeping company with actors and bohemians, drinking in coffee houses with androgynous women, and hoping for the press of another man's lips against my own, but my brother was far from being able to comment on this sort of behaviour. 

I left money on the table for the astonishing number of coffee cups I'd managed to drain in the time we'd spent there and followed Wilder out into the street once more. The night was clear and cold, the stars visible in the sky despite the city lights. We went first to the stage door of the Lyceum, where Jim was huddled just inside, bundled up and reading a newspaper, and Wilder left a note for both Miss Bainbridge and Holmes. Then she led me to the divided townhouse that held their upper floor flat and saw me into the sitting room. There was brandy in the cupboard which I accepted, and it was thus that the actors arrived and found us: out of our jackets and two drinks deep, toasting the Queen.

"My dear Watson," Holmes said as he came in behind Miss Bainbridge, "whatever sort of trouble has Wilder been getting you into?"

Wilder got up to greet her partner, and I watched in unfeigned amazement as she embraced the girl and kissed her sweetly upon the lips. It was so brief and familiar that it might have been a chaste greeting, but the affection in their faces, the devotion, was unmistakable. 

Holmes flashed me a smile as he slid out of his overcoat and hung it up beside mine.

"No trouble at all," said I, scooting to give him room beside me. He sat down with a deep sigh of relief and leaned into me, insinuating himself under my arm outstretched along the back of the sofa. He was warm and smelt of make-up and sweat and tobacco smoke. I inhaled deeply, none too subtle, and asked, "How was it tonight?"

"Tolerable," Holmes said. He curled his legs up onto the sofa and took my brandy out of my hand. When he sipped it, the inside of his lower lip was visible against the glass. He handed it back and I tried not to drink from exactly the same spot, lest I appear too keen. The liquor burned going down. "Ned's come back."

"Wasn't he in custody only yesterday?" I asked.

Holmes pointed a long finger at me in approval, very close to my nose. "He was indeed, my dear boy!"

"Didn't they give him a day off?"

"A day off?" Holmes laughed. "He's been lounging around in that cell since Sunday! He was eager enough to be back at the theatre. I don't think we could have kept him off the stage if we'd tried. Irving certainly wasn't about to."

"That he was not," Lydia said. She had disappeared into the bedroom and returned in her slippers with a long, silk floral dressing gown over her dress. She sank down in the armchair across from the sofa and took the glass of brandy and soda that Wilder held out for her. "He was mad to have Ned back. Without Orrick, and without Ned as his understudy, they've had bloody Quincy Dudley playing Laertes. He was just the ghost before: now all the scenes are haunted."

Holmes snorted and helped himself to my drink again. I itched to touch him: my fingers curled on the back of the sofa, eager to make their way to the slope of his arm. His elbow dug into my side. He finished my drink and held out the glass for Wilder to refill. When he resumed his position against my side, I shifted my arm as casually as possible to settle along his back instead. He put his head upon my shoulder and patted me on the knee. His hand lingered.

"And the crowds?" Wilder was asking.

"No less eager," Lydia replied. "It's disgusting. The whole thing is a travesty. I'm not sure I can do it much longer, to be honest."

"It won't be much longer," Holmes promised. "Watson here is following the trail from one end, and I am pursuing the other."

"Oh," I said, remembering, "Holmes—"

He perked up. "Yes, Watson?"

"I found Sterling in the records."

Holmes swung his legs off the sofa, sitting upright in order to look fully at me. He grasped my hand. "Tell me what you know. At once, Watson!"

"Hang on a minute," I said, regretfully shaking him off and getting up to rifle in my jacket pocket. "It's just here, somewhere… ah, here." I came back and handed over the slip of paper.

" _Deceased as a result of injuries,_ " Holmes read aloud. "James Carpenter. Hm, that's rather unexpected: the name is not— oh!" He jumped up and brandished the slip at me. "You're certain?" he demanded. "This is what it said?"

"I copied it exactly," I protested.

"Bloody hell," Holmes swore, staring down at the paper again. "I've been on the wrong track after all. I will need to confirm one more detail, but… Watson, my very dear fellow, you have unraveled the whole business!" He threw his arms wide, grinning, and then grasped me on both sides of my face and kissed me soundly.

"I wish you'd tell us, Sherlock," Lydia complained behind him, while I immersed myself in the dual sensation of his warm palms on my cheeks and his brandy-flavoured lips on mine. "You're being obnoxiously opaque."

Holmes released me and said, "Being opaque is the only way I'm sure to get my man. If I tell you, you'll go to the theatre tomorrow and give it away. If I'd told that Inspector Lestrade, he would have swooped in and made the arrest before my case was complete. If I'd told you, Watson— no offence, my dear— you'd have worried about my safety to the point of distraction."

"I worried about your safety anyway," I said.

"We're all worried about our own safety," Lydia said. "I can't believe you've been letting us carry on with a madman in our midst, expecting us to do our jobs as if everything were normal."

"You've put them all in danger, Holmes," Wilder interjected.

"No, I haven't." Holmes reseated himself on the settee and put his legs across my lap. "He isn't a madman. He's a vain, shallow little fool with a grudge and a horrible way of dealing with it. I have the matter in hand, so let's forget about it for now. I swear I'll wire the Inspector in the morning." He patted my shoulder and beamed at me. "Well done, old boy. You'll share in the glory."

"I'm not sure I want the glory," I said, rubbing my palm lightly up and down his shin. "I'd never have expected any of this."

"None of us did," Holmes said gently, glancing at Lydia and Wilder who were both still glaring at him. "But it'll be over before you know it. Now, will you pour me another drink, Wilder, or do I have to get it myself?"


	7. An Arrest is Made

The hangover that accompanied the morning light was worth the night it followed. We had availed ourselves of Lydia and Wilder's excellent brandy until half past one and then, having finished the bottle, transferred the whole party to Baker Street (Lydia took one look at the unfamiliar sitting room and said, "Sherlock Holmes, I knew you had a dark secret, but I hardly guessed it was that you were a posh tosser."), where Holmes's liquor cabinet was well-stocked with expensive vintages and glittering glass decanters. Lydia and Holmes and regaled us with reenactments of their favourite romantic and tragic scenes from all of Shakespeare's catalogue, while Wilder and I cried encouragement, or playful discouragement, when they came too close to kissing one another. The tail end of the night saw Lydia and Wilder retiring to the upstairs bedroom, stumbling, supporting one another and giggling, while Holmes took advantage of their absence and my extreme lack of inhibitions to drape himself over me on the settee and kiss me senseless.

I woke in his bed, still dressed— or as dressed as I remembered being at four o'clock— with Holmes in a limp heap beside me and a full team of navvies digging an Underground tunnel through my skull.

"Holmes," I whispered, reaching for him. My hand met his hip, jostling him, and he grunted. "Holmes," I whispered again.

He buried his face deeper into the pillows. "No," he moaned, muffled, reaching for my hand to toss it away, but as soon as he gripped me he changed his mind and pulled me closer. "Five more minutes."

"Glad to know you're still alive," I whispered. I closed my eyes again and breathed in the sleep-warm, brandy-sweat smell of him.

"Shh," he said. "Watson, please."

"Sorry."

He giggled and sighed. "We shouldn't have done that."

"Perhaps not," I said. "You have a criminal to catch."

I felt him go stiff in realisation and then he yanked himself out of my arms to sit up. Immediately he groaned and bent over, putting his head almost between his knees.

"Are you going to be sick?" I asked, afraid to sit up myself.

"No," he said, "I'm— bloody hell. No, I'm all right." He straightened and blew out a breath. "You're a bad influence, Doctor."

Now I did struggle upright. "Me?" I demanded. "You're the one with a cabinet full—"

He was laughing, and he cupped my face to pull me in for a clumsy kiss. "You induce me to show off," he said.

"You're a professional actor," I replied, running a hand through his hair. "You don't need me."

His smile softened and his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well," he said. There was a pause, and then he said, obviously chancing tack, "You're right, though. We have a murderer to catch."

"Can it wait an hour?" I moaned.

"No!" Holmes cried, making me wince, and staggered to his feet. "Come on, Watson. Rally, my man, and we'll be at the theatre by noon. I'll send a wire to Lestrade on the way."

+++

It was after noon by the time we even left the flat. Wilder and Lydia had to be roused, plied with water and a little breakfast, and packed into a hansom cab. Holmes invited me to use his washroom and I took advantage of the hot water supplied by the kitchen to bathe away the fog of alcohol. I sat a little longer than I ought to have, perhaps, considering the ruin my my left shoulder. It was healing, the redness fading, and the mobility of the joint had certainly improved lately. My right thigh, too, though it still ached in the cold, was becoming a familiar sight. At least it wasn't as bad as it had been when I'd stepped off the gangplank of the _Orontes._

When I got out and wrapped myself in Holmes's dressing gown, the landlady refreshed the water and Holmes took his own bath. Then she convinced us to eat, and it wasn't until half past twelve that we stepped out onto the pavement.

Holmes looked at his watch. "Well," he sighed, "at least I'm feeling better. How are you?"

"Fine," I said honestly. "I'm ready for the solution to your case, Holmes."

"Very good," Holmes said, taking me by the arm. "A quick stop at Wigmore Street, and then we'll be on our way."

Telegram sent, Holmes hailed a hansom and we rode to the theatre in style. I didn't go in much for cabs: the Underground and on foot were my usual modes of transport. The city went by at a magnificent pace, despite the press and din of traffic, and when we alighted Holmes put a hand under my elbow as I stepped down.

We made a detour backstage and Holmes put his head in at the ensemble dressing room. I stood in the hall and tried not to think about the brief look I'd had at his own private dressing room, nor of the stain on the floor half scrubbed away that now marked the interruption of that look.

Irving was expecting us in his office, and we only had to wait ten minutes or so before Inspector Lestrade joined us. It was an uncomfortable ten minutes: Holmes paced the small room with deliberate strides, turning tightly at the end of each short lap, and Irving sat behind the desk, wringing his hands. I was relegated to the only other chair, a spindly affair with three legs that creaked and groaned when I moved in a way that made me brace my elbow on the desk in case it did give up and collapse.

Lestrade rapped smartly on the door and poked his head in. "Mr Irving?" he said, "Mr Holmes, good morning. Doctor."

We answered with a trio of 'good morning's and Lestrade glanced around for a place to sit. Finding none, and turning down my own precarious perch with a shake of his head, he stood in Holmes's way.

"Well, Mr Holmes," said he, "I've brought two strong constables and a wagon. I hope you won't waste their time at all."

"Hardly," Holmes said, and rubbed his long, thin hands together. He checked the clock on Irving's desk. "You made good time, Inspector. Our fellow will be here shortly, I imagine."

Inspector Lestrade huffed with annoyance that he still wasn't being told the identity of the man he'd come to arrest when there was another soft tap on the door.

I held my breath. Beyond that door was a murderer, a cold-blooded killer who had planned the execution of a fellow actor, who had schemed and waited for the right moment, and then gotten away with it despite the presence of almost the entire cast beyond sound-permeable walls. The murder had taken place almost a week ago: in a few minutes, our man would have got away with it no longer.

Holmes waved me out of the chair and behind the door as it would open. He pressed my hand briefly. He was almost vibrating, he was so excited.

Irving cleared his throat and said, "Come in."

The man who stepped into the room was short and stout, and from a three-quarter rear view of him— hair slicked tight to his skull, his collar greasy with make-up residue— I didn't recognise him at first. But Holmes shut the door and we stepped out, and the man turned around in surprise. It was the over-eager fellow who had done his best to comfort Miss Lily Sellars, the deceased's fiancee, but whose comfort had been decidedly unwelcome.

"Holmes," he said, scowling, "what's this about? Mr Irving?"

Holmes's smile made me shiver, glad that it wasn't directed at me. "Hello, Dudley," he said silkily. "So glad you could make it."

"Don't you sneer at me, Holmes," Dudley said, shooting me a dirty look as well.

"Please sit down, Quincy," Irving said.

Dudley shifted his feet his feet. "I'll sit when I please, Mr Irving," said he. I knew what a man about to bolt looked like, so I took up a place with my back against the door.

"You remember Inspector Lestrade?" Holmes said, beginning a slow circle around Dudley. "He's about to crack the Sterling murder case... with your help, that is."

Dudley had started to sweat, and he kept his eyes fixed on Holmes as Holmes moved around the room. I was convinced Holmes had identified the right man and we hadn't even heard the story yet. My heart was racing.

"Did you find the chap in the hat?" Dudley asked.

"Oh, come off it, man," Holmes scoffed. "Why don't you tell us who James Carpenter is?"

Dudley went pale. "J-James Carpenter?" he stammered. "I don't know—"

Holmes stopped and faced Dudley. "He was your brother, wasn't he?" he said. "Orrick Sterling killed him, so you killed Orrick Sterling."

Dudley spun around and ran straight into me in his attempt to get out the door. I wrestled him into submission, wrenching his arms behind his back, and guided him to the chair I'd lately abandoned. It creaked alarmingly when I stuffed Dudley into its seat, but held. Dudley was breathing hard, his teeth bared. He looked between Holmes, Irving, and the Inspector.

"That's a damn lie," he cried.

"It's a shame about your vanity," Holmes sighed, perching on the edge of Irving's desk. Irving had stood up when Dudley bolted and the Inspector had stepped forward, and now the four of us surrounded the prisoner entirely. "You should have been on your way days ago, but you just couldn't resist the promotion."

"Mr Irving, do I have to stand for this?" Dudley demanded. To me, he growled, "Get your damned hands off me."

I ignored him, watching Holmes. Holmes sighed, glancing at Lestrade to make sure he still had the Inspector's attention. "If you won't tell the story, I will," he said. "Feel free to correct me at any point." To us, he said, "This man's name is not Quincy Dudley. It's Alfred Carpenter of Amelia Street, brother to the late James Carpenter. That gentleman died as a result of injuries inflicted upon him by Orrick Sterling in a brawl in Southwark in 1879."

"Sterling was a drunken brute," Dudley spat.

Holmes slammed a hand down on the desk, making Dudley jump. "You joined the company so you could exact your revenge," he said. "You wormed your way in among us with your own vindictive agenda, blundering your way about on stage so that you could keep an eye on your quarry. Why didn't you just dispatch him and slink away again into the gutter?"

Dudley glared at him. His face was red now, blotchy, and his eyelid was twitching.

"Because you liked the attention," Holmes hissed. "I can't blame you for that, I suppose. The stage has a strange allure. You bided your time, never losing sight of your goal, just putting it off while you worked your way up from curtain-puller to part-time ghost. Then you met Lily Sellars."

Dudley's jolt of rage almost took my arm off, but I braced hard against him and shoved him back into the chair. "You shut your mouth!" Dudley shouted. "You don't deserve to even speak her name."

"Miss Sellars didn't want anything to do with you, did she?" Holmes goaded. "She was already walking out with Sterling, and you couldn't stand it. Not a girl like that with a— what did you call him?— a brute like him. So you thought you'd go ahead and do what you came to do in the first place and get him out of the picture."

"Do I have to listen to this?" Dudley demanded, looking past Holmes to the Inspector.

"Mr Holmes," Lestrade said, "do you have any evidence for your accusations?"

Holmes scowled. "His fingerprints are on Ned Bingham's clasp-knife, Inspector, and his shoe prints are in the blood on the storage room floor. Jim Turner didn't see him leave when he said he left, and O'Kane and Gillings suggest he only joined them in the street. The clothes he wore that night may be destroyed by now, but you'll find blood on the inside of his coat. Surely that's enough for an arrest. Dudley, what was it made you pick that night?"

"Bugger off," Dudley said. "I'm not telling you anything. You've made up a wild story that you can't prove."

"The evidence does seem to be primarily circumstantial," Irving put in.

"I have the names of the other men who were involved in the death of James Carpenter," Holmes said, passing a folded note to Lestrade. "They have not forgotten that night. Feel free to bring them in and question them in relation to the event. Let Dudley— Mr Carpenter, that is— have a look at them. It might spark his memory."

Lestrade took the note. "We'll look into it, Mr Holmes," he said. "Dr Watson, you can let go of Mr Dudley now."

I glanced at Holmes, more inclined to take orders from him than from the Inspector, but he nodded. Dudley shook my hands off and stood up defiantly.

"So you've seen some reason in this charade," he said to Lestrade. He pointed at Holmes. "This man is insane, sir, and I suggest you clap him in irons for the safety of us all."

"Well," Lestrade hedged, "Mr Holmes has made a few very interesting suggestions, I'm afraid, and we will need to ask you a few more questions."

Dudley puffed up in fury and disbelief, but he didn't struggle as he was escorted out of the room. A moment later there was a commotion in the hallway, accompanied by a shout from the Inspector and followed by the sound of a body being slammed into the wall. Holmes was out in the passageway in a moment with Irving and myself just behind him, in time to see Lestrade cuffing Dudley's hands behind his back.

He raised an eyebrow at us as he wrenched the actor away from the wall. "Trying to make a run for it is suspicious, I admit," he said ruefully, guiding the man out the door. "I'll be in touch, Mr Irving. Mr Holmes, Doctor."

Irving went back into his office, sat down at his desk, and put his head in his hands.

"Irving," Holmes said, taking a step towards the director.

Irving's reply was muffled but very direct: "Get out, Holmes."

Holmes cleared his throat and backed out of the room. He closed the door behind him.

"Well," he said, "I suppose I'd better go get ready for the show tonight."

I accompanied him backstage once more, and he was at once accosted from all sides by the company demanding to know what had happened. News of Dudley's arrest had reached them in no time at all. Holmes was halfway through his explanation, reiterating what he'd outlined in Irving's office, when the director himself appeared. He looked haggard and worn, his hair standing up as if he'd been raking his fingers through it, and his presence in the ensemble dressing room doorway brought Holmes's story to a dead halt.

"Go home," Irving said. "All of you. The show's cancelled."

There was a half-hearted murmur of protest, but the events of the last week had taken their toll on everyone. Another arrest with only Holmes's word that it was the right one, and they were all ready to be done with the business. I only hoped that Holmes's word was good, and that this turn of events wouldn't let the real murderer slip away into the swirling current of London's general population.

"Doctor," Holmes said, just inside the stage door, halting in the path of everyone else who wanted to get out and causing a general traffic jam. "As I am no longer engaged this evening, would you care to join me for dinner? There's a place on the Strand I haven't been in ages and am craving just at the moment. I feel like a celebration."

"I'd be delighted," said I. We'd spent so much time together over the last week, and still he wasn't tired of my company. I certainly wasn't tired of his. "Are you sure it's not too early?" 

"For dinner?"

"To celebrate."

Holmes scoffed. "I'm right," he said. "I don't need the Inspector's confirmation to know it was Dudley who killed Sterling. I'm satisfied with the results of this investigation. Come on, Watson: Simpson's awaits."

+++

Dinner was a sumptuous affair that even I couldn't protest, Holmes was in such high spirits. He ordered a bottle of Beaune without having to ask which wine I was partial to, and we shared chicken liver pate, scotch duck eggs, and beef on the bone carved at table side, and finished with a cheese platter and a toffee pudding that we passed back and forth. Holmes's fingers were sticky and he set to licking them at the end of the meal in a way that forced me to look away and study the carpet for decency's sake.

"See a show with me," he said afterwards. "I never get to see any show but my own, Watson. Please?"

We slipped into the stalls at the Adelphi just as the curtain was going up, and I admit I paid more attention to Holmes during the play than to the play itself. Halfway through the second act, without looking at me, Holmes slipped his hand down onto the seat cushion and linked his little finger with my own. I can't even remember now what it was we saw, except that during the interval Holmes joyfully critiqued every actor's technique, sneered at the set dressings, and had a go at the costuming.

It was quite late when were disgorged with the rest of the audience into the Strand once more, and I glanced in the direction of my hotel. I wondered if they'd have thrown my meagre collection of belongings into the bin yet and given my room away to someone else. Holmes caught me looking and wrapped his gloved hand around the lapel of my coat.

"Come back to Baker Street," he suggested, lowering his voice and giving me a little tug. "I'm not done celebrating."

I was powerless to resist him, with his quicksilver eyes and his sultry little smirk. He knew it. He stepped a little closer, in a street full of people, and gave me a little nudge with his hip.

"What do you say, Doctor?"

"Yes, all right," I said, all in a rush. He laughed. I wanted desperately to kiss him.

I couldn't right away, for he hailed a hansom and we sat side by side visible to the passing traffic, but beneath the guard he slipped his hand halfway up my thigh and made me breath a little faster. The traffic in Covent Garden was a nightmare, snarled with cabs and carriages and late-night omnibuses, but we broke free soon enough and dashed up Tottenham Court Road. We turned onto the Euston Road and were sailing past Regent's Park by eleven o'clock, and arriving at the doorstep of 221 Baker Street at a quarter past.

The house was quiet when we first entered, but by the time we had hung up our overcoats and each had a turn in the washroom the landlady tapped on the sitting room door and poked her head in.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, smiling at the sight of me. "Any tea before you retire?"

Holmes went over and kissed her on both cheeks. "No," he said, ignoring her surprise, "thank you. You are a treasure and a gift, Mrs Hudson. We'll have breakfast around ten tomorrow, if it's not too much trouble, and send the boy— what's his name? Never mind— send the boy over to Montague Street in the morning to see if I've got any post."

"As you say, Mr Holmes," said she. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"No," he said. "We won't disturb you for the rest of the night."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Deliberately," Holmes amended sheepishly.

Mrs Hudson shook her head at us both and bid us goodnight. She disappeared and we listened to her descend the stairs, unable to keep from smiling at one another. When the sound of the door closing on the ground floor apartment reached us, Holmes shrugged off his jacket and slipped on his dressing gown.

"Brandy?" he offered, heading for the much-depleted liquor cabinet.

"No, thank you," said I. "I should like to be clear-headed tonight, I think." The soft tingle of the wine had faded during the show, and now I was feeling brave and terrified and determined.

"You're not still suffering from last night's overindulgence, are you?" Holmes asked earnestly.

I stepped close to him and slid my hands up his arms. The silk of his dressing gown was cool under my palms. "No," I said, "I am not. I only want to have my wits about me."

Holmes's eyes glittered, and he closed the cabinet with a nudge of his knee. His fingers slipped nimbly underneath my jacket and rested on my waist. I could feel my heart beating strong and steady in my chest, and eagerness flushed my face. I cupped the back of his head, sliding my fingers into his hair, and he leaned forward to kiss me.

His lips were warm and sweet, and at once I pulled him firmly against me. His lean, strong body lined up so neatly with my own thin frame that I hardly noticed the difference, and revelled instead in the heat coming off him and the way he opened my mouth with his tongue and re-familiarised himself with the territory. It was delicious to have to tilt my head up to kiss him, and the way he held me with both arms around my waist made me shiver. He had one broad hand on my lower spine and one between my shoulder blades, and he kissed me like there was nothing better in the world to do.

However, I was aware that there _were_ other things to do (classifying them as "better" is debatable, of course, for Sherlock Holmes is a magnificent kisser), so eventually I separated myself from his consuming kiss made my way along the line of his jaw and down his ivory throat. I let go of the nape of his neck to undo his tie and unfasten his collar. Holmes dropped his head back as I parted the buttons on his shirt and kissed the skin I bared, and he moaned outright when I dipped my tongue into the notch of his collarbones.

"Watson," he said, his vocal chords vibrating under my lips, "before we get too carried away, my man, will you come into the bedroom with me?"

"If you insist," I said, pulling back with a smile. He kissed me once more on the mouth and took his collar out of my hand. He opened the door for me and ushered me in, leaning over to light the lamp at the bedside.

I untied my own tie and began to unbutton my waistcoat and shirt. My hands hardly shook at all. Holmes put his collar studs and cufflinks away in a box on the table and I held out mine for him to take as well. He put them in the same compartment, nestled safe in the velvet cushioning. Then he stood and watched in silence as I untucked my shirt and slid it and the waistcoat off my shoulders to stand before him in only my vest. He stepped close and took the layers, hanging them on the end of the bed, before reaching up to touch my bared shoulder. His fingertips were warm and gentle along the edge of my scar.

"Is that what brought you home?" he asked, his voice dropped to reverent whisper.

"Part of it," I said. "I was shot in the leg, too. And then there was the bout of enteric fever that had me laid up in the field hospital in Peshawar for six months."

Holmes looked up into my face. Despite the delay of undressing, and the sight of my terrible wound, his arousal had apparently not abated. His eyes were still dark and the flush in his face was visible even in the low light. He licked his lips. "I'm sorry to hear you were ill," he said softly. "I'm sure that was unpleasant."

"I don't care to revisit it," I said, more severely than I meant to, but rather than take offence Sherlock Holmes smiled.

"I should say not," said he. "I doubt a recitation of your medical history makes for good pillow-talk, but I am glad you're… somewhat recovered?"

I nodded and glanced down at his hand, still slowly tracing the border of the gnarled flesh that made up the front of my shoulder. His thumb caressed the dip of my clavicle where it had shattered.

"Can I see the rest?" he asked. "If it's—"

I pulled my vest over my head and turned, showing where the bullet had gone in. It was a coward's wound, a wound in the back. Holmes exhaled softly and bent, putting his lips against the little round scar that was a stark contrast to the wreck the ball's exit had made of my chest.

"Judging by the angle," he said, mouth against my skin, his hands sliding around my thin waist, "the shot came from above you, and slightly to the left. You were kneeling, I suppose? Over a patient?" 

I nodded again, closing my eyes. I could see Warrington's face, but with Holmes against my back, holding me steady, the memory didn't turn me upside down. Holmes kissed my shoulder again, and then up along my back to the nape of my neck. He pressed his palm against the front of my ruined shoulder and said, "You astound me, John Watson."

"I had my back to the enemy," I protested.

"Your enemy was before you, Doctor," he chided. "There should have been men protecting you so that you could do your duty."

I took a breath. The death toll at Maiwand had been horrific. That I had gotten out alive, with all my limbs still attached if not intact, was the product of luck and loyalty. I covered Holmes's hands with my own and pressed them. He bit down on the back of my neck. His shirt buttons were little pinpricks of coolness against my spine.

"You're wearing too much," I said. I turned in Holmes's arms and began to unfasten the rest of the offending buttons. Holmes smiled at me, warm and genuine, and let me peel the shirt down to his wrists and off. I hung it over mine on the bedpost. His fingers undid my trousers and I had to stop him to untie my boots and slide them away under the bed. Holmes followed suit.

Soon enough, though the process held none of the franticness of a few nights ago, we were in our drawers, facing one another. Holmes's erection was obvious, tenting out his flies. I was no more subtle. Holmes reached out to grasp me through the linen and drew me gently towards him. Then he slid to his knees, putting himself eye-level with my cock-stand, and grinned up at me.

"All right?" he asked.

"More than," I replied, my breath coming short now. I slid a hand into his hair. He made a noise in his throat and pressed his face wantonly against my groin, rubbing his cheek along the length of my stiff prick. His hands slid up to grasp the backs of my thighs, holding me in place as he nuzzled me. My prick flexed eagerly, remembering the welcoming heat of his mouth. He let go of my leg to part my flies and draw my cock out through the opening. I untied them instead and pushed them down around my hips.

"Don't be too shocked," I warned as they fell. Holmes looked up into my face for a moment and then back down at the scar on my upper thigh.

It wasn't as impressive, in comparison to the one in my shoulder. There had been no explosion of flesh, no shattered bones, only the solitary entrance of a projectile that had stuck in the muscle of my thigh and lodged against my femur, and the long surgery scar where they'd opened my leg up and pulled out the shrapnel. The cold, wet climate of England made it throb: I had been assured that the limb itself was entirely sound, but I suspected some little fragment had been left behind.

Holmes regarded the bullet hole solemnly, as solemnly as one can with another man's prick in one's face. He leaned in and kissed it, dragged his tongue over the mark, and then turned his attention inwards toward my groin, apparently satisfied. If he wasn't going to make a fuss about it then neither was I, I decided.

Instead, Holmes took my cock in hand and gave it a stroke, making my knees tremble. I balanced myself on his smooth, bare shoulder. Holmes's tongue flickered out and touched the tip of my prick, licking away the bead of wetness that had gathered there. I hissed through my teeth. He was gorgeous, especially from this angle, with his sharp nose and cheekbones in relief and his lips parting to take me inside. His raven-black hair was smooth between my fingers. His eyelashes were smudges on his cheeks. He licked slowly at my tip, smearing our mingled fluids around until I slipped deeper into his mouth. I spread my legs a little, remembering his encouragement from last time, and rocked my hips forward, testing him.

He moaned, his hand tightening on my hip, his fingers twisting around my prick. I gasped, my eyes falling shut. I thrust again and felt him pull his lips in to cover his teeth, the better to let me take my pleasure. He tugged on my hip, encouraging me to keep moving. I did. His fingers were growing slippery, working along the length of my prick that wouldn't fit into his mouth. He groaned again, shifting his weight, and the hand on my hip disappeared.

I opened my eyes and looked down. He was cupping his prick through his drawers, not stroking of rubbing, just clasping himself tightly. It sent heat arcing through me and my leg trembled again.

"Holmes, I—" I started, and he let go of himself to steady me. "I have to sit," I admitted.

Holmes pulled away, his mouth open and his breathing heavy. He nodded, shook his head as if to clear it, and nodded again. "Yes, good heavens, of course," he said, pushing himself to his feet. He guided me backwards to the edge of the bed and I sat, grateful and blushing and so aroused I could hardly think. My cock gleamed with his saliva and throbbed with eagerness to be back in his mouth. Holmes knelt once more, between my knees this time, and gave my prick another stroke.

I tipped his chin up and kissed him, licking the briny taste of myself out of his mouth, and echoed his groan. He broke away to whisper, "God, I can't wait to have this inside me," while squeezing me firmly.

My hips jerked and my toes curled against the carpet. I kissed him again, harder, deeper, stroking my palms down his long, bare back to the waist of his drawers. I slipped my hands beneath the fabric and gripped his backside, my fingers digging into his supple flesh. He moaned, muscles clenching. I dipped a finger into the warm, humid crevasse between his cheeks and stroked the pad of my fingertip over his entrance.

Holmes's exhale was a hot staccato against my lips. He pulled back to look into my eyes. His were the dark storm-cloud grey I had come to recognise, his gaze predatory and determined. I bit my lip, deliberately drawing his attention to it, and stroked him again. His jaw muscle clenched. He leaned away from me, dislodging my hand for a moment, and opened the drawer in the table beside his bed. Inside was a jumble of junk: loose papers, pencils, old keys, a pair of scissors, and, most importantly, a glass jar with a lid that Holmes picked up with a little noise of triumph. It was a pot of petroleum jelly; he held the jar steady while I unscrewed the lid. I dipped two fingers in and slid them once more down the back of his trousers. Holmes dropped the pot to the mattress and slicked his own hand. He pressed his forehead to the front of my shoulder, stroking me with his slippery palm and muffling a moan against my chest as I teased and massaged his hole.

The muscle began to relax under my ministrations and I dipped one finger inside carefully. His hand faltered. I pushed deeper, almost losing my composure at the tight heat of his body. I worked that single finger in and out of him for a while, taking note of the tremors in his body, enjoying the way he spread his legs wider and wider on the floor. I had to lean further over his shoulder as he sank, though it enabled me to slide my finger deeper with every stroke, and finally I said, "Holmes, get you drawers off, will you?"

"Yes," he gasped, squeezing my thigh, "but—"

"Short-term disappointment, long-term reward," I said.

He laughed and lifted his head again. "As you say, Doctor."

I eased my finger out and he sat back, his knees still splayed, his heels tucked under his backside. The colour was high in his cheeks and his eyes shone. Sweat glimmered at the edge of his hairline. I lifted his chin with my left, clean, forefinger, and kissed his lips. "Come up here," I murmured.

Holmes grinned a lopsided grin, lasting the length of a breath, and he climbed to his feet again to untie his drawers. A wet spot had formed on the fabric. He eased them over the jut of his prick and they skimmed down his thighs to the floor. I drew him toward me with a hand on his hip and kissed his belly just below his navel, brushed the tip of my nose against the thick curls of hair that surrounded his long, slim cock. I held his prick still with my other hand and licked it from base to head, his flesh warm and rigid under my tongue. I took him between my lips and sucked, feeling his body shake. He hissed and rocked on his toes, fucking shallowly into my mouth.

"Wait," he said, though he made no obvious move to stop me, even putting a hand on my head to keep me where I was, "wait, I want— this isn't what I meant to— oh, Watson—" His other hand rested on my shoulder, the tip of one finger resting against the entry scar. It might have disturbed me, to have someone touching me so intimately, but instead it felt like a reassurance. I pulled away and smiled up at him.

"You're right," I said, "I've made you a promise and I shouldn't get distracted."

Holmes stroked his fingers through my hair and bent to kiss me. That might have been a mistake, for I was loathe to be parted from him again. I held onto him and kissed him as he tried to climb into bed beside me, and carried on kissing him until he was lying beneath me with his head on the pillows and his impossibly long legs splayed on either side of my hips. I knelt over him, ignoring the twinge in my thigh, supporting myself on one elbow. His hands wandered over my head and shoulders: long fingers in my hair, warm palms on the nape of my neck.

I slipped my hand between his thighs and he rocked his hips up to meet my probing fingers. One slid back in without encountering any resistance; I introduced a second. Holmes moaned against my mouth, his hands tightening, and lifted one foot to brace it carefully against my good hip. I pushed in deeper, whispering, "Yes," and he moaned again. Every thrust of my fingers sent a ripple up his spine, and he was squirming and shifting in his eagerness, trying to fit me deeper. Three fingers slid together inside him made my forth finger cramp, but it was worth the wild-eyed look on his face, the helpless tremble of his lips, and the gleam of wetness gathering on his belly where his cock dripped in his excitement. His kisses grew sloppy, his hands restless on my body.

"Enough," he said, his voice thick. He reached between us to grasp my prick; the touch of his hand made me jolt. My thigh and shoulder ached in concert from holding me up.

"I can't take you like this," I said, easing my fingers out. "I'm— my leg—"

"Oh," Holmes breathed, and shook his head, "that's— switch with me, then?"

We switched, and I sat propped up against the pillows, my legs outstretched, the injured muscle of my thigh no longer protesting, my shoulder still somewhat tight. Holmes straddled me, kneeling astride my hips. I held my cock as he sat back, and at the first touch of my tip against his hole we both groaned. Holmes ducked his head, breathing hard, holding onto my biceps, and his back arched as he sank down. He went slowly, his muscular legs rigid with the effort. I held his hips, stroked his sides, kept myself from thrusting upwards.

Finally he was seated, his backside against my groin, the hair on his legs tickling my thighs. His hands were tight. I caressed his ribs, concerned by the furrow of his brow and the way his eyes were squeezed shut. His erection had flagged.

"All right?" I asked softly.

He nodded. His hair fell in his face and he shook it out of his eyes. When he met my gaze, his smile was a little strained. "It's only… been a little while, that's all."

I bit my lip and stayed still, still petting him gently. I moved from his sides to his front, rubbing his abdomen, teasing his nipples, taking a moment to appreciate the fine hair on his chest. He flashed me a grin and wriggled his hips a little. I gasped at the sensation. His smile widened and he switched his grip from my shoulders to the headboard behind me.

"Easy now," he warned, and I took ahold of his hips. He rose up in one long, slow movement that made my back arch. When he sank down again, more smoothly this time, we both shuddered. As his body relaxed, becoming accustomed to the intrusion, he began to move faster and his prick stiffened up again. I used my grip low on his hips to change the angle of them and he bit off a sudden cry of surprise. He tipped his chin up, grinding his hips hard, and said, "Again, Watson!"

I tilted him again, working entirely on guesswork as he moved, and he shuddered and cried out, louder this time.

"Decorum, Holmes," I warned, thrusting my hips upward and causing him to shout once more.

"Don't you 'decorum' me," he gasped, cuffing one hand through my hair. I grinned at him. "Fuck me, Doctor," he demanded.

"I'm a convalescing war hero," I reminded him. "I can't overexert myself."

"Oh, cheeky," he groaned, shifting on his knees so that he could work himself more firmly against me. I was rubbing him just right inside; I could tell. The same went for me. Every movement of his hips had me shivering and aching for more. I wasn't sure how long I was going to last, but it didn't seem like it needed to be much longer. Holmes had recovered entirely from the discomfort of penetration and was again stiff and leaking, his prick bobbing. He let go of the headboard and took hold of himself.

"Come on," I murmured nonsensically, giving him a little help anyway in the form of a series of rolling thrusts. He was tight and furnace-hot, squeezing down on me in all the right places. The plump, wet head of his cock appeared and disappeared rapidly in and out of his fist, and he was starting to lose his rhythm. His hand in my hair was shaking, and his nipples had tightened to points. He was flushed all the way down to his navel; he gleamed with perspiration. He was close, the muscles in his abdomen tensing, and his arse started to clench rhythmically as he began to shudder.

I braced my feet on the bed and held onto his ribs, hammering up into him as his spine bent and his eyes fell shut. The first hot spurt of ejaculate on my belly made me grunt. My own orgasm was not far behind. I tried to keep moving as Holmes shook and groaned, and he was still stroking himself slowly, drawing the tail end of his climax out, when mine coalesced in the pit of my hips and spilled forth. I pulsed deep inside him in long, rolling waves, the pleasure of it clearing my brain of any thought but those having to do with the man above me. I was gone.

Holmes watched me with satisfaction, little shivers working their way through him, and when I opened my eyes again he smiled at me. I realised he wasn't wearing any make-up at all, that his face was clean and his expression clear. I reached up and touched the corner of his eye with my thumb. He closed his eyes and let me stroke his eyelids. I pulled him down and kissed him deeply, trying to convey even a fragment of the emotion currently tangled up in my chest. Holmes sighed into my mouth and kissed back with equal fervour.

"Stay," he whispered, curled up against me, our bodies still joined in the most intimate fashion, his clean hand in my hair again and his sticky one wedged between us. We would almost certainly need a bath. Holmes lowered his mouth to the front of my shoulder and kissed the edge of my scar.

"God, yes," I said.


	8. The Conclusion

Morning again with Holmes beside me. I lay still for a long time, listening to him breathe. We hadn't washed beyond a perfunctory wipe with a damp cloth; my skin itched. Also my bladder needed emptying, but I was loathe to leave him. His hair tickled my lips, and his belly was smooth and warm under my palm.

Finally, acquiescing to the demands of my body, I slipped out of bed doing my best not to jostle him and prayed that he wouldn't wake up before I returned.

He did not. It was only as I was climbing back in beside him that he began to come awake: his breathing deepened, his muscles twitched, and I had wrapped my arms around him once more by the time his eyes opened. He sighed, pressing into my embrace, and said, "Hello, there," in a low, rough voice.

"Good morning," I replied, equally soft. I slid my hand up the middle of his chest and kissed the back of his neck.

"This is a pleasant way to wake up," he remarked, covering my hand with his and linking our fingers together. "What's the time?"

"Just after nine," I reported, according to the clock on the mantle.

"Good heavens," Holmes yawned. "So early. Well, we have a little while yet."

We made the most of it. By the time Mrs Hudson tapped on the door to let us know that breakfast would be up in five minutes, we were dewy with sweat and sharing a post-coital cigarette, being infinitely careful not to singe the blankets. Holmes kissed me sweetly, holding the cigarette aloft, and hopped out of bed.

He was glorious, nude in the morning light. He stretched, going up on his toes, his hands linked above his head, and all the muscles in his back rippled. His arse was pert and bitable. His inner thighs gleamed where he'd smeared the vaseline for me just ten minutes ago. Even the backs of his knees were charming. I felt my heart turn over in my chest.

 _Steady on, Watson,_ I thought.

I got up and accepted his second dressing gown. The water in the wash basin was cold, but Holmes stuck his head out into the corridor and made a noise of pleasure, returning with a warm kettle to refresh it. We wiped ourselves clean, giving one another a modicum of privacy as we did it despite our very recent intimacy, and I put on my drawers. Holmes did not.

Breakfast was just being laid on the table when we stepped out, and Mrs Hudson drew Holmes's attention to the two pieces of post that had been fetched from his Montague Street rooms earlier this morning. He picked it up and went to rummage in the desk by the window for a letter opener.

"Help yourself, Watson, before it gets cold," said he, finding the knife and inserting it under the flap of the first envelope.

I served out two plates and watched him as he read. It only took a moment for his face to change from curiosity to triumph. He looked up at me, his eyes flashing, and crossed the room in a few long strides to throw the note down in front of me and pull my face up for a firm kiss.

"My dear Watson," he cried, letting me go to throw up his hands, "congratulate me! I have helped to capture a murderer."

I picked up the note and read as follows:

_Mr Holmes—_

_Alfred Carpenter, alias Quincy Dudley, confessed to everything. Murder of Orrick Sterling done by his hand and confirmed by fingerprints, shoe marks, and blood stains, as you indicated. Motive of revenge confirmed. Much obliged to you for your assistance._

_Signed,_

_Inspector G. Lestrade, Scotland Yard._

"You were right!" I said. "He's confessed! That's absolutely splendid, Holmes. You really are quite incredible. Those details; I'll never know how you picked them up."

Holmes waved the compliments away, but he was flushed with pleasure. "It was simplicity itself, really," said he. "I can read people, that's all it is."

"Nonsense," I said. "You saw things the official force didn't look for."

"I admit, the study of crime has always been fascinating to me," he said. "It is a hobby I occasionally indulge when I am not working."

"What's in the other note?" I asked.

"Ah yes!" Holmes said, and opened it. This time his expression changed to one of regret, his brow furrowing and his lips thinning into a line. "Irving is shutting down the play," he said. "He's closing the theatre for an indefinite period. He's grateful for my involvement in the matter— I assume he's got a similar note from Lestrade— but with the scandal he thinks it's better if we all take a little time off." Holmes snorted. "That's easy for him to say: even after he pays the company for the run, he still has a good bit of cash squirreled away. The rest of us are out in the cold without a job in the middle of the season."

"Surely you're not _that_ hard up," I said, glancing around the room.

Holmes had the good grace to look embarrassed at his lapse. "Well, not _me_ , perhaps," he said, "and Lydia and Wilder, they might be all right for a little while with Wilder's investments. But the rest of them… it's not a very lucrative profession, acting. Even with that rush last week after Sterling's death, we're not a terribly wealthy company overall." He sighed. "It's for the best, though. Irving's been working too hard anyway, what with the accident." At my look of confusion he explained, "Back in September, just before the run started, Irving and Ellen Terry— she's an actress, do you know her?— anyway, they were in a carriage accident in Brook Street. Irving came out of it with a broken ankle and a few broken ribs, but Ellen was— God, it was horrible. She was in hospital for a month at least. The doctors said she'll make a full recovery, but it's slow going. She was meant to play Ophelia. Lydia was her understudy." Holmes shook his head and tossed the note from Irving down on the table atop the one from Lestrade. "I suppose this will mean the company breaks up," he said sadly, sitting down across from me.

"Surely not," I protested. The eggs were getting cold.

"Anyone who can find work elsewhere will take it," Holmes said. "There won't be anyone left by the time Irving is ready to go on with the run." He picked up his fork. "He'll have to rebuild from the ground up."

"You'll stay, though, won't you?" The eggs were _perfect_. I promised myself I would remember this breakfast forever, even if I never tasted Mrs Hudson's cooking again.

He shrugged, picking at his food and moving it around the plate without seeming to put any of it into his mouth. "I'm not just going to wait around," he said. "I can't do _nothing_ , Watson. My mind must be occupied or I'll go mad."

Mrs Hudson returned to check on us. She made sure the coffee was hot enough and that Holmes actually consumed a morsel of breakfast. Then she asked after the case.

"He was magnificent," I said, before I could stop myself, before even Holmes could answer. They both looked at me in surprise, and I felt my face heat, but I went on. "Holmes knew who the killer was before Scotland Yard was even close, and he kept the man on stage while he built his case."

"Watson helped," Holmes said. "He was my man on the outside, doing the research I needed to pin Dudley down."

"How did you know his name wasn't Dudley?" I asked, suddenly remembering that curious detail.

"I knew it was an alias from the beginning," Holmes said. He leaned back in his chair and sipped contentedly at his coffee. "I get to know everything I can about my fellow actors before they even step onto the stage. There was no record of Quincy Dudley before he joined the Lyceum players. It's not terribly unusual— I've known more than a few actors who operate entirely under a stage name to distance themselves from their past— but it did stick in my mind. When you brought the name James Carpenter to me the other night, I knew I had to find the connection. I was already looking at Dudley for the murder."

Mrs Hudson was smiling at us, her hands clasped in front of her. "Oh, Mr Holmes," she said, "you don't know how lovely it's been to have you home again. I do hope you'll give up that ruse about living hand-to-mouth and that horrible little room in Montague Street."

"I'm very fond of Montague Street," Holmes protested, but without any heat. 

"And you, Dr Watson," she said, "I do hope we'll be seeing a little more of you as well."

I managed a smile and looked back down at my breakfast.

"Well, I'll leave you gentlemen to it," Mrs Hudson said. "Ring when you're finished, dear."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Holmes replied, and she closed the door behind her. We sat for a moment in silence. Then Holmes said, "I say, Watson."

"Yes?"

"Do you remember what I said last night?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. A great deal had been said last night; I wasn't sure to which portion he referred.

"I was in earnest," he said, which didn't illuminate matters. He chewed his lower lip, realizing I didn't understand. "When I asked you to stay."

I was certain I hadn't heard him right. "Pardon?"

"Stay," he said again. "Here, with me. In Baker Street. Bring your things from the hotel and stay."

"For how long?" I asked, wary. I wasn't going to be a kept man, if that's what he was hoping for. My pride wouldn't take it.

"As long as you like," Holmes said. "Mrs Hudson is right… I don't need to keep the place on Montague Street. With the company dissolved and me out of a job, I don't really need to deceive anyone anymore. My brother's been renting these rooms for me for years, but—"

"I don't want your charity, Holmes," I said.

"No, my dear fellow, no! I was going to say, my brother has been renting these rooms for years, but I have enough of my own to go halves on it with you, if that would suit."

My heart was trying to climb up out of my mouth. I put my cutlery down. "Are you— are you sure? We hardly know one another."

Holmes laughed. "Please, Watson. You and I know one another better than a thousand other chaps who share digs. Imagine if we were perfect strangers; we could live together in harmony without knowing each other at _all_. But we already know we have a few things in common." He winked, yet still I hesitated, afraid of being too keen. "There's a second bedroom upstairs," Holmes offered, in a gentler voice. "You'd have your own space. But you'd always be welcome in mine."

This was it. I thought of Stamford and his gift of a theatre ticket. I thought of my empty hotel room, of my boots under Holmes's bed, and the perfect breakfast in front of me. The door was open, so I walked through.

"All right," I said. "Halves, and I will take the upstairs room for decency's sake."

Holmes thumped the table in celebration. He leapt up and hurried out into the hallway, shouting for the boy. When the boy came up, Holmes instructed him to take a note from me over to my hotel that all of my belongings were to be transferred here at once. I scribbled the note in the meantime. Holmes handed that and two shillings to the boy, who took off at once down the stairs, out the door, and down the street.

"His name is Tim," Holmes reported when he sat back down at the table. "I'd better remember it, if I'm going to live here— excuse me, if _we're_ going to live here from now on. Eat up, Watson; your eggs are cooling."

My belongings were delivered before noon, along with the final bill for the hotel. I had just enough in my pocket to settle it, though I would have to tread carefully until the next dispensation of my pension. But I had a roof over my head, a warm fire in the grate, and a queer, gorgeous, brilliant actor to keep me company. I'd never had it better. 

I spent the afternoon up in the second bedroom, distributing the contents of my trunk into the wardrobe and cupboard. By teatime I was exhausted, worn out not only from the excitement of the day but from the exertions of the night before. I fell asleep in one of the armchairs in the sitting room, and woke to find Holmes sitting across from me, smoking a long-stemmed pipe and regarding me thoughtfully.

"I play the violin," he said.

I rubbed my eyes and sat upright. "I beg your pardon?"

"When I'm thinking. I hope that won't disturb you."

"I doubt it," I said, "as long as you do it during reasonable daylight hours."

Holmes's mouth twitched. "What have you to confess now?" he asked. "It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another when they decide to live together."

"My nerves are shot," I said. "You saw how I was when— I mean to say, I can't stand being surprised, especially not by loud noises. I've been told I have a temper."

"I get in the dumps sometimes," Holmes said, "and don't open my mouth for days on end. You mustn't think I'm sulking when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right."

"I gamble," I said.

Holmes looked interested. "You didn't strike me as the type."

"Not often, but occasionally I will risk quite a lot on the horses. I haven't been flush enough recently, or well enough, to bother."

"Hmm." Holmes sucked on his pipe for a few moments, and then said, "I have a passing interest in chemistry. I was thinking of setting up a little laboratory in the corner, there, if you do not object."

I shrugged. "Don't burn the place down, and I won't object."

"A reasonable request." He got up, slipped his pipe into the pipe rack, and crossed the little room to stand in front of me. He offered me his hands; I took them. "I was thinking," he said, "while you were upstairs, that I might take on this amateur investigator role more seriously."

"Become a detective?" I asked. I rubbed my thumbs across his knuckles. "You seem to have a knack for it."

"It's… it's not the first time I've been driven to solve a mystery," Holmes admitted. "I'll tell you about it sometime. But I'll need something to do if I'm not going to be on stage, and I might as well put my talents to use."

"You're not going to try to find another theatre company?"

"Not this time of year," he said. "Perhaps in the autumn there might be places opening up for a leading man, but for now it's no use. All the companies are set, their seasons are decided, and I've got to find something else to amuse myself."

"Solving crimes, then."

Holmes grinned. "How hard can it be?"

+++

By some sort of miracle, Holmes and I rubbed along together quite beautifully as flatmates. His violin-playing did occasionally wander out of the agreed-upon daylight hours, but he was so talented that I never remembered to be irritated by it. His repertoire was immense, and he could play any number of my favorites on demand without the music in front of him. When left to his own devices, though, he tended to play things I didn't recognize, or nothing resembling music at all; sometimes I thought maybe he was composing, but he never wrote anything down.

His chemistry set also became a feature of the sitting room, though without running water at the desk he was limited in the experiments he could undertake. 

I made the other corner my own by purchasing, on a whim, a substantial roll-top desk. I had it installed by the window where the morning light would fall across the surface. I didn't know what I was going to do with it just yet, but it held my post (what little there was of it) in the pigeon holes, my diary and ink wells, and my medical kit in a lower drawer. I had a few notes from the Lyceum Theatre murder that I'd written up, and they went in a folio that was never quite forgotten.

The upstairs bedroom did see a bit of use. I was, and still am, quite a light sleeper, and sometimes Holmes's restlessness or his unconventional hours kept me awake. At first I tried to suffer through it, but I became grouchy and unpleasant and my full convalescence depended on getting enough sleep. So for the sake of my health and my mood and our continued _bonhomie_ , I slept three or four nights every week in my own bed. The other half of the week I spent tangled up with Holmes, both of us dropped straight to sleep, sweaty and sated, after a physical encounter. Waking up beside him was a joy, but so was coming down to breakfast and finding him still at the table, waiting to wish me good morning.

We saw Lydia and Wilder a few times after the dissolution of the company. Holmes invited them over for tea a week after I'd moved in, and we spent a very pleasant afternoon talking of the theatre and prospects for the future, as well as anything else that occurred to us in the meantime. Holmes was in contact as well with the rest of the company, and paid special attention to the progress of the Alfred Carpenter, alias Quincy Dudley, murder trial, but it was slow going.

We also had a few visitors in response to Holmes's advertisement in the papers, regarding his newly minted status as a consulting detective. He resolved a question of inheritance, found a lost jewel case, and reunited a long-separated mother and daughter, among other things, all without leaving the flat. He was beside himself every time he got a note of thanks, giddy with the joy of being right, but I could tell he wanted something more exciting than minor family matters. Orrick Sterling's murder had been quite a high note to start on.

One chilly morning in March, I came down to breakfast and found a magazine lying open on the table. The article on display, ambitiously titled 'The Book of Life,' had been marked with pencil: corrected, amended, and scribbled on. I picked it up for a better look and Holmes came out of his bedroom.

"Ah," he said, sitting down at the table across from me, "what do you think?"

I'd barely started reading, but as I did I began to recognize the content. "'Like all other arts,'" I read aloud, "'the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study nor is life long enough to allow any mortal to attain the highest possible perfection in it. Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest difficulties, let the enquirer begin by mastering more elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to which he belongs.'" I lowered the magazine and looked up at Holmes. "This is what you do, isn't it?"

"It's my article," Holmes said proudly, lifting his chin.

"Congratulations," said I. "I see you're already making edits."

He rolled his eyes. "They printed an earlier draft than they should have."

"It's very clever, nonetheless," I said. 

I finished reading the article as we ate. Holmes had described his methods to me in vague terms in the past, explaining that he could 'read' people, but it appeared that he saw much more deeply, and more quickly, than I had really understood. He'd seen my military career in my gait and my bearing, and heard my family history in my voice. He'd seen the murderer's boot prints and known how he walked, and judged his height from the wound he'd made in his victim. If Holmes could do that to anyone it would help him a great deal in his new career.

There was a tug at the bell, and a minute or two later Mrs Hudson showed a fellow up. He was an older man, his posture very straight, with a tattoo on the back of his hand. Holmes rose to accept the message he had brought and then dismissed him without a reply and came back to sit at the table.

I indicated the article. "So tell me that chap's career."

"Commissionaire," Holmes said, narrowing his eyes at me. "Even without a uniform, Watson—"

"No, before that," I said.

He grinned. "Retired Sergeant of Marines."

I laughed. "I have no way of confirming that!"

"Call out the window to him," Holmes said. "Quick, before he gets down the street."

I went to the window, threw it open, and shouted, "Sergeant!"

The man stopped at once and turned, looking up for the voice. When he spotted me, I indicated with my outstretched hand, and then tossed him a coin. He caught it, raised it in thanks, and I drew myself back inside.

"Well done," I said, thoroughly impressed. "How did you know?"

“Did you see the tattoo on his hand?" Holmes asked. I nodded. "It was an anchor, which smacks of the sea. Then there were his side-whiskers, styled in a regulation fashion, as well as the way he carried himself and stood: a military man, a marine. Extrapolating from that, his air of command and self-importance indicated he was an officer, while his current profession suggests more specifically a sergeant."

"Wonderful!"

Holmes shrugged. "The work of a moment."

"You must know a great deal about military ranks, then. Did you study them for a role?"

"Perhaps," Holmes said. He was now opening the message the retired-sergeant-turned-commissionaire had brought. "Information tends to stick in my mind; I have to be careful to organize it properly or it would all become jumbled." He held the note up. "It's from Scotland Yard."

I drew in a breath. Perhaps he was finally being summoned in as a special witness. They had drawn upon his expertise a great deal less than I had expected them to. Surely what he'd noticed and found out was of use to them. But then perhaps they were simply using his information without acknowledging his part in the matter. It might have been embarrassing for them to admit to being guided by an amateur.

Holmes passed the note over as I wondered, and I read it. An Inspector Gregson wrote very stiffly to inform Holmes that his powers of observation and deduction had not been forgotten by Inspector Lestrade and that they might be of use in a new situation. Likewise, as Holmes had been down to Scotland Yard a few times recently, offering his help on cases where the lead had gone cool, he might be interested to be involved in a case from the beginning. 

Then, the case: a man had been found dead in an empty house in the Brixton Road. There was no wound on the body but the room was splashed with blood. From the tone of the message, they were offering this as a learning opportunity for a curious enthusiast, but it clearly disguised the fact that Scotland Yard was out of its depth and didn't want to admit it. They were calling Holmes in as an experiment, to see if he could glean anything from the scene that their own detectives could not. I was beaming by the end.

"They need you," I said, passing it back to Holmes, who was also grinning like a loon. "You must go, Holmes. It's the opportunity you've been waiting for! If _Lestrade_ is putting your name forward…. You _must._ "

"Get your hat, then," said he. "You're coming with me."

"Me?!"

"You're my investigative companion," Holmes said. He put his napkin on the table and stood up, leaving his breakfast half-eaten. "I need you at my side. Who knows what's waiting for us? Hang on a minute," as I started for the door, "I'm going to put on a nicer jacket."

"For the scene of a murder, Holmes?" I halted in the buttoning-up of my overcoat. "Is that wise?"

"Presentation is everything, my dear boy," Sherlock Holmes said, grinning at me. His gray eyes flashed with excitement. "As the Bard said, 'All the world's a stage.'"

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your continued patience and enthusiasm! This has been a great pleasure and joy to write and share with you. Cheers.
> 
> For your entertainment, here is my inspirational Pinterest board: <http://www.pinterest.com/schmelinor/totus-mundus-agit-histrionem/>.
> 
> The title comes from the (rumored?) motto and crest of the original Globe Theatre, which translated from Latin means "all the world is a playhouse."


End file.
